


No One Does It Better

by nodibs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nodibs/pseuds/nodibs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's an alcoholic and Louis is a bartender. The first time they meet isn't the first time they've met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. This isn’t my first fic, but it’s my first in this fandom. It’s also my first fic in about 5 years. So please excuse me while I’m dustin’ off these old, creaky writing fingers. This prologue is actually a bit vague, but I wanted to make you have questions. Chapter One will answer all of them if I decide to post it.

He holds his breath, completely still, in the vain hope that he’ll become invisible to the other, as if Louis were a snake, and Harry stiffly thinks he could be. His small frame could surely allow his bite to strike at twice his body length to sink venomous words into Harry’s core.

“Mate? I  _said_ , will you be havin’ another?” Green met blue, heavy met light, dark, thunderous clouds met clear, calm ocean tides, and it’s all too much.

Harry averts his eyes quickly and gulps down the remaining drink in his glass because he can’t reply, he can’t breathe, he can’t  _breathe_  with those eyes so close to him, looking at him with such level disinterest. He stands quickly, ignoring his shaking hands, and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “No,” he says quietly, almost too quietly to be heard over the drunken Journey sing-along happening at the opposite end of the bar. He drops cash on the counter and turns without another glance to the man behind it.

The stark cold of London’s Autumn Thursday cuts into his skin with another aching reminder of his emptiness. Stuffing his still quaking hands into his pocket, Harry begins the short walk back to his flat. His blank expression completely betrays his inner turmoil. Fragmented thoughts bounce with jagged edges against his skull, and, after quickly unlocking his door, he’s reaching for his liquor cabinet, opening the closest bottle of vodka and drinking it straight. His throat nearly wants to protest the scorching heat, but, at this point, his body accepts the vice as vital.

When the need for air tugs at his lungs, Harry pulls the bottle from his lips and slams it to the counter with a tight grip and clenched eyes. When he can stand to open them again, he stares coldly at his phone where it lays next to his keys on the counter, and it’s with solemn resignation that he grabs at it, quickly unlocking it and going to the only voicemail he’s got; the only one he could never bring himself to delete two years over. His thumb hovers over the small button that would, without fail, push him right over the edge of this night. His right hand seeks out the bottle before him, and, with his poison, he aids his pain.

“Hello, love! I am quite offended by your not answering my call, but I suppose I’ll let you get away with it because you’re cute. Anyway, I do hope you got my note this morning. Not sure how you couldn’t have since it was posted to your forehead and all. I’m so sorry, again, for not being there when you woke up. I had to run some very important errands. Just remember to be ready by 5, baby. We have reservations for 6 at our place. Okay? Call me back when you get this. Happy anniversary, Harry. I love you so much.”  _Click._

About halfway through the message, Harry found himself sinking to the floor, and as silence falls, sneaking into the long-forgotten crevices tucked away in the darkest corners of his too-big flat, he holds his breath, as if Louis were a snake and Harry stiffly thinks he is. His small frame can stand to strike a grown man to his knees and sink venomous words into Harry’s heart.

Releasing his captive breath like a man brought back to life, Harry slams back the bottle, his antivenin, with a white-knuckled grip and he wishes for his nothingness to blank him.  


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind words on the prologue! I hope this clears some things up. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr (still new, yikes) nodibs.tumblr.com

It was the kind of love that burned so brightly, so hotly, that it left welts beneath the skin of all those involved; the kind of love you wrap in softer cloth to keep away from the too-rough hands of the world, and Harry was only 17. People always told him it wasn’t forever; you don’t find your true love so young. They called it infatuation, but he knew better.

When Harry met Louis, he thought “Oh, well, this is it.” There was never a question or doubt in his mind, and maybe that’s how every 15-year-old feels going into their first serious relationship, and maybe it was naive, but Harry didn’t see how it could be anything but Fate, and Louis felt the same. And through it all, that feeling never wavered.

Five months after Louis turned 18, his Grandfather died. Louis was given a large sum of money and the deed to his Grandfather’s three bedroom flat in North London. Five months after Louis turned 19, he and Harry moved into the flat together.  They were so green, so excited about the world, their world, and all it held. The night they finished bringing over boxes, they ran their hands across the walls of _their_ flat and made love on the kitchen floor.

Harry went back to school at a posh London college that Louis paid for with part of his inheritance, and they both got jobs as waiters on the weekend. They had tea on their bedroom balcony every morning and cooked breakfast in nothing but their pants and socks as they slid across the linoleum floors, singing into spatulas. They had it all.

Until six months later, when it all came down to a phone call.

\----------

It was November 17th, their two year anniversary, and Louis hadn’t been home when Harry woke up with a post-it note stuck to his forehead apologizing for his absence. Harry read the note with an incredibly fond smile before tossing it to the side and rolling out of bed to shower. When he reemerged, squeaky-clean and freshly-shaven, he noted a missed call from Louis along with a voicemail. He listened to it as he dressed himself and checked the time as their reservation was mentioned. When he hit the small “call back” button, the phone rang four times before Louis’ bubbly voicemail greeting filled his ears.  After leaving a short message, Harry set off to start his day.

9 hours, 10 phone calls, 6 voicemails, and 7 texts later, Harry was sat in their favorite booth at their favorite Italian restaurant as the clock ticked closer and closer to 6:45 without so much as a peep from Louis. The waiter comes back over with sad eyes and completely misguided assumptions as he asks Harry if he just wants to put in his order now. Just as Harry goes to apologize again, assuring his date _was_ coming, and to stop looking at him like that, his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket with lightning speed and doesn’t even check to see who’s calling before he’s answering with a very tense, “Hello?”

“Harry.” Jay. Harry pulls the phone back just to double check, and, sure enough, a smiling picture of his boyfriends’ mother is staring back at him.

“Jay?” He asks again, just for confirmation. It wasn’t as though it were highly unusual for Jay to call him. He’s incredibly close to all of Louis’ family, something the older lad loves especially, but he assumed she’d know they had plans tonight.

“Harry,” she says again, “Louis...” there’s a choking sound and a muffled whimper and Harry presses the phone closer to his ear, “there’s… been an accident. Please, just come down to the hospital. Now. Please, Harry.” And suddenly Harry can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t feel anything other than shock. He pauses for all of one second before he’s throwing a twenty at the waiter who stood still beside the booth and runs out the door.

“On my way,” he says darkly before hanging up and shoving his phone into his back pocket.

Not ten minutes later, he’s pulling into the parking lot of the University College Hospital. He slams his door shut, locking it with the remote as he runs through the automatic sliding doors.  
  
“Louis Tomlinson,” he says quickly to a young, perky-looking receptionist. “I’m here for Louis Tomlinson.” He glances around quickly, looking for any sign of Jay.

The girl stares at him minutely before typing the name into her computer. “Are you family?” she inquires, and Harry really doesn’t have time for this shit. “I really don’t have time for this shit. I’m his boyfriend. I just got a call from his mother. I need to see him. I need to know what happened!” Harry’s volume rises with each sentence, panic setting in. He takes in another breath to continue his rant on the poor girl before he’s stopped by a fragile, familiar voice.

“Harry.”

Harry turns around to see Jay, one arm across her stomach, the other covering her mouth. Her black hair is tied into a messy bun atop her head and there are faint traces of mascara runs on her cheeks. She looks exhausted, and the lines on her forehead are prominent, underlining the seriousness of this situation.

“Jay,” he breathes before running to the woman before him. He wraps his long arms around her, bringing her close to his chest. He isn’t even sure of what’s happening, but he wants to take some of that pain, that worry out of her heart and take it into his own, on top of that which he already feels. “W-what’s,” Harry pulls her away and coughs, trying again, “What’s happened?”

And it’s like a switch. All composure she’d drawn in the past few hours broke entirely. Her lip trembled, her eyes stung bloodshot, and the burning lump in her throat returned with a vengeance to seek any coherent explanation and shove it back down.

 “Jay,” he chokes out, “Jay, please. I need to know. Please.”

“Louis,” she starts, finally meeting his eyes, “He- he was driving back to yours, was almost home, f-from Manchester, and there was an-an a-c-ccident,” she lets out a strangled sob into the back of her hand before continuing, “He was hit, head on, by a moving trailer that’d come loose in front of him. It happened too fast. There was no way to avoid it.”

Harry searches her face for any sign that this may be some horridly sick joke. He searches the lobby for some place where Louis could jump out and tell him he’s sorry he scared him, it’s just a prank, and he loves him. He whips around to look at the girl he’d yelled at minutes before and all she does is stare back at him with sad eyes – the same look the waiter from before gave him, and the he slowly turns back to Jay where she’s watching him take it in.

“Is- Is he? I-I mean, i-i-s,” and the dam breaks,  any composure he’d held up until this point completely melts away as he crumples to the floor in a sobbing fit. His right hand covers his mouth as his left grips his knee with painful force as he sinks to his knees. His vision is blurry, but he can feel Jay fall in front of him with her hands on his shoulders, rubbing soothingly.

“Harry. Harry, listen. Breathe, sweetie. You need to breathe, okay? I don’t need you in here, too," but her words fall on deaf ears as Harry just wails his sorrow. His boyfriend is hurt. He didn’t know. He didn’t _know._ “Harry, he’s alive,” and that gets his attention. He looks up, searches her eyes again, but this time for truth. “It was bad, Harry, I won’t lie to you. He’s in critical condition, but he’s _alive_ , and that’s more than I could have hoped for when I arrived. He’s…he’s in a coma, right now. He’s had a couple surgeries, and he’s going to need a few more, but he is breathing and his heart is beating and he’s _alive_ , Harry.”

“I need to see him,” he whispers. “Please, Jay. I- I have to see him.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, love,” she tucks a stray curl behind his ear in the way Louis always did and he bites his lip to cut off a whimper. “He’s not lookin’ his best right now. I don’t think it’d be good for you.”

“Please,” he chokes out.

Jay looks at him with uncertainty scribbled across every crease in her skin before she nods slowly. They stand up together and she squeezes his hand before telling him to follow her. They make their way through winding hallways and stand quietly through excruciatingly dull elevator music before they walk past a sign reading “Intensive Care Unit.” Just as Harry’s thinking about how much Louis hates hospitals, how much he doesn’t belong here, Jay stops in front of a door.

“I’m… I’m going to go get some coffee. Would you like some?”

Harry doesn’t turn to look at her as he shakes his head, too transfixed on the door before him. “No, thank you.” He hears her walk back the way they came. It takes a minute for Harry to gather the courage to place his hand on the door knob and another minute to get the courage to push it open. He keeps his eyes on the ground as he walks in, and as he hears the solid _click_ of the door closing behind him, he slowly drags his eyes across tiles and wires before he’s looking at a very Louis shaped figure on the bed placed in the middle of the room.

If it weren’t for the giant bandage on the left side of his forehead, the stitches just beneath it on his temple, the cast hugging his right forearm, or the bruises that littered his neck and chest, you could think he’s sleeping. His face is serene, peaceful, but his normally sun-kissed skin is pale and sickly, and it's really not like he's sleeping at all.

“Lou,” he weeps. “Louis,” he tries again, “baby, please,” and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, really, “God.” He throws his head back and stares at the ceiling tiles with a tense jaw. He’s on pins and needles, body made of tight knots, and he just wants to rewind this day. He wants to wake up before Louis leaves and beg him to stay home, stay with him, stay in bed. He wants to go back to last week, when they fought over something so _stupid_ that he can’t even remember what started it, and just _kiss_ the older boy senseless. He wants to go home, crawl into Louis warm, safe embrace and fall asleep to the sound of his rhythmic, light snores. He wants so much.

He falls, boneless, into the chair on Louis’ left and reaches for his hand cautiously, and that’s exactly how Jay finds him half an hour later. She sinks, wordlessly, into the chair on Louis’ right, looking at Harry with concern only a mother can hold.

“Why did no one call me?” And there it is, the question Jay has been waiting for.

“I got the call at half one. I thought you’d already be here, I suppose. I actually thought you might’ve been in the car with him,” she admits quietly, “I half expected to show up and see your mother raising hell with the front desk,” she sends him a small smile as he looks up, “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?”

He manages a weak chuckle before saying, “No. Beside the post-it he left me this morning and a voicemail around noon, I hadn’t heard from him all day. ‘ Was a bit upset about it, actually. I thought he might’ve forgotten before I got his voicemail.” Harry looks back down at his hand holding Louis’, and Jay swallows hard at that, biting down the truth she wants to scream. “What was he doing in Manchester anyway?”

She weighs her options before ultimately deciding she doesn’t have the energy to lie to the broken boy across from her. “He was having breakfast with your mother and me.”

Harry looks back up at her at that, “What? Why? I mean, that’s fine, obviously, and all, but why today?”

Jay fumbles for a minute before sighing, “He was picking up some stuff from Stan and wanted to say hello before he left, I suppose.”

“Right,” Harry nods, still not understanding really.

“H, I think I’m going to head to my hotel, alright? I’ll see you in the morning, love,” she moves over to kiss his forehead before doing the same to Louis, just to the right of his bandaging.

“Goodnight, Jay.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

\---

An hour later, Harry still hasn’t moved when two knocks come to the door before it opens. An older man in a white coat walks through and closes the door softly. He has graying hair and kind eyes behind his thick-rimmed classes and his eyes scan Harry quickly before nodding to himself before looking down at the clipboard he holds and back up to Harry again.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Goodwin. I’m going to guess that you’re Harry,” he gives a small smile as Harry sends him a questioning look. “Mrs. Tomlinson told me about you earlier,” Harry nods at that. “Speaking of, would you happen to know where she is?”

“She,” Harry stops to cough, his throat a bit raw, “She went back to her hotel for the night.”

“I see. Well, I have a few of Mr. Tomlinson’s belongings that he had on his person at the time of the accident,” he reaches into his large coat pocket to pull out a plastic bag and walks across the room to place them on the bed in front of Harry. “I’m very sorry for what has happened, Mr. Styles. Mrs. Tomlinson told me it is your anniversary today. I won’t be cruel and wish you a happy one, but I’ll wish you many to come. Please know that my team and I are working very hard to help your partner.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says quietly, but genuinely.

Dr. Goodwin nods before exiting quietly.

Harry stares at the clear bag before reaching into his pocket for his phone. He starts a group text with Zayn, Liam, and Niall, their three best friends, explaining, briefly, what happened. After pressing ‘send’ and locking his phone again, he reaches for the plastic bag. He takes out Louis phone, the screen shattered, and wallet before he pauses with his hand half inside the bag. There’s a small blue box in the bottom corner, and it’s so easily recognizable. Harry knows exactly what it is, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to scream about how _unfair_ this all is, but he doesn’t. He picks the box up with trembling fingers, as if its contents could change his life, and, really, they could. He runs his thumb across the crease that splits the case in half before opening it quickly.  The small silver band has a single emerald inserted in it, surrounded by two black diamonds. The velvety-beige top interior of the box reads “Marry me?”

\---

Jay returns the next morning to find Harry stripped down to his jeans and the baggy white t-shirt he had worn beneath his jumper the night before, and with a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s still in the chair he claimed the night before.

“Morning, love. Sleep alright?” she takes the chair on Louis’ right again.

Harry levels her with a look, before sighing, because he knows she’s just trying. He wants to humor her, but there’s a cold pressure around his neck that demands his attention. “You knew,” and it’s not a question, because he knows it’s true. He figured it out around two in the morning.

“What?” and she sounds genuinely confused before Harry lifts the hand not holding his coffee to his neck, pulling on a chain that drags a the silver band from beneath his shirt, and Jay sighs. “I- how did you- I mean, I thought Lou- He said he was- and dinner- but-,” she finally resigns with a small, “Yes, I knew. He’d asked Anne for your hand about a week ago, but we knew he’d been planning it for longer. He had it engraved at a shop in Manchester,” she finally meets his eyes, “That’s why he was there yesterday. Anne and I wouldn’t let him come back without seeing it for ourselves.”

Harry nods before tucking the ring back into his shirt, letting it rest cold against his warm skin. “Dr. Goodwin gave me a bag of his things last night. The box was in it.”

“Right.”

“I would have said yes.”

“I know.”

“I love him.”

“I know.”

\---

Zayn, Liam, and Niall show up around half ten with dread in their eyes and tea in their hands. They hug Jay first, whispering their sorrow, before they crowd around Harry with soft touches and warm embraces. They pull up chairs around the bed and take turns talking at Louis. They’re all holding up considerably well, Harry thinks.

Louis, Zayn, and Liam grew up together. They’ve been friends since the diaper days, and, in year five when Niall shows up at school fresh off a plane from Ireland, they adopt him into their group without question. Harry meets them when he’s just entered year eleven and the other boys are in sixth form, and they’ve never looked back.

Looking them over again, Harry sees the obvious wear on their emotions. Liam has dark bags beneath his eyes, and Zayn smells even more heavily of smoke than normal. Niall doesn’t have any of his usual spark, and the light he carries in his eyes is much more of a simmer. They’re scared. Harry doesn’t blame them.

\---

It’s on a Thursday four months later, March 14th, to be exact, that Louis wakes up. He starts making this horrible choking sound and Harry is slamming his hand against the “call” button on his bedside.  Zayn, Liam, and Niall have all stood to their feet, but haven’t moved, not knowing what to do. Jay flings the door open shouting, “Help!”

A team of nurses flood the room, pushing Harry out of the way. They pull a long tube from Louis’ mouth and do a lot of other things Harry doesn’t understand. It’s only after all but one nurse has left that they see and hear Louis coughing and squirming as the last nurse attempts to push a cup of water against his chapped lips.

Louis attempts to raise his weak hand to take the glass, but the nurse stops him, “Louis, just drink,” and he does, not opening his eyes against the sunlight again. “Mrs. Tomlinson, could you please close those blinds? Mr. Malik, the lights, please,” she directs, and they follow suit. The room is submerged in shadows, and Louis slowly opens his eyes. Harry rushes back to his side, grabbing his hand tightly.

“Wha-“ Louis starts before going into another coughing fit. His voice is deep, raspy, and he cringes at the soreness in his throat.

“Shhh,” the nurse soothes, “it’s alright, Mr. Tomlinson. Having a tube shoved down your throat will do that to you,” she jokes softly, but upon seeing his wide eyes, she continues quickly, “Drink this water and I’ll send someone over to help with that sore throat, alright?” He barely nods at her before she’s out the door.

He shifts around a little, his bed having bed having been lifted to a sitting position after his breathing tube was extracted, and takes a small sip of the water the nurse had handed him. Bringing the cup back down, he looks to his right. His mother, his beautiful mother looks stunned. She’s got her black hair pulled back in a neat bun, something she often does out of stress, and she’s got happy tears in her eyes. She runs over, not being able to take it anymore, and kisses all over his face. Louis, despite his confusion and pain, smiles at this. He tries to lift the hand that isn’t holding his water to touch the side of her face, but when he pulls, he finally registers the weight against it. He turns his head to the left to see who’s holding him and pauses.

“Who-“ Louis swallows hard, trying again, “Wh-o are you?”

\---

“Harry, please,” Jay tries to reason with him.

“What, Jay? What do you want from me? I can’t do this.” It’s been a week since Louis woke up, and Harry’s packing. He’s going to stay with his friend Ed for a while and he’ll find a place in Manchester. He’ll survive.

Amnesia. It wasn’t all that severe, to be honest, but it’s ruined Harry’s entire world. Louis can remember everything up until just after his sixteenth birthday. He’s lost nearly three years of his life, and, mostly, he’s lost every moment he ever spent with Harry.

Dr. Goodwin had told them not to tell Louis anything about his life after his sixteenth birthday- that Louis needs to recall his memories on his own. “80% chance,” he’d said, “There’s an 80% chance he’ll remember it all within the next few months.”

“The doctor said-“ Jay began, but Harry had, had enough.

“Fuck the doctor!” and silence falls across the room. He sighs before going back to the box before him, packing his clothes tightly as he continues, “He doesn’t even remember meeting me, Jay. I- I can’t. I-just-Imagine, looking at the person who means the most to you, looking at your entire world, looking in their eyes and having them ask who you are. I died that day, Jay, and I’ve died every day since. I need to leave. I can’t be here with him. I need to learn to live again.” Jay goes to interrupt, but Harry barrels on, “God, maybe people were right. We were so naïve. We thought we knew it all, you know? We thought we had it all figured out. I’ve just turned eighteen, Jay. I’m only eighteen, in London, with a boyfriend…ex-boyfriend, supposed to be fiancé, who doesn’t know who the fuck I am. We shouldn’t have been so foolish.”

“Harry,” her tone stops his hand as he folds another t-shirt, and he looks her in the eyes, “you stop that right now. You know what you and Louis shared, and now is not the time to doubt that. I know you’re hurting. I can’t imagine how much, but Louis loves you. He doesn’t know it right now, but he’ll remember. I know it, okay? And would you stop packing!”

“Why? It’s not like I can stay here.”

“I want you to keep the flat.”

“No. I couldn’t, I-“

“Harry, stop, I’m taking Louis back to Doncaster. He needs to- he needs to see how everything has changed. He needs to see his sisters. He needs to remember his life before London. It’s not like we would ever sell this place. This flat belongs to you and Louis. Stay, please.”

“It still smells like him,” his voice is strained as he gestures to Louis' side of the bed.

“I know.”

“I love him.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He will.”

“Yeah, well, you call me when that happens.”

The call never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts! The next chapter will bring you back to the present (of the story. October 5, 2013 - set the morning after the prologue). Thanks!


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Ello :) I really appreciate all of you who take time to comment or give kudos. Like I said before, this is my first fic in about 5 years, so I'm still just getting back into the swing of things. 
> 
> Any questions / comments / concerns, hit me up on here, OR I've recently gone up in the world and decided to get myself a writing tumblr: nodibs.tumblr.com

**October 5, 2013**   
**11:13**

“Harry, honestly!” Zayn’s exasperated voice floats its way into Harry’s consciousness and he manages a groan in response. “Get up,” he demands, drawing back the curtains.

Harry quickly buries his head in his pillow with a muffled, “Fuck off.”

“No. Come on. Liam’s sick and you’re coming in for him,” Zayn’s voice leaves no room for discussion as he digs through Harry’s closet for something clean and suitable for work. He decides on a pair of washed out skinny jeans with a hole in the right knee and a soft burgundy jumper that he throws on the end of the bed.

“Call Niall,” Harry tries anyway.

“Niall’s busy.”

“With what?”

“You’ve got two seconds to get out of that bed before I drag you out myself.”

“Fucking hell,” Harry grumbles, “fine. Let me at least shower.”

“Please do.”

Harry throws him the bird as he walks, stark naked, into his bathroom. He takes a second to splash cold water on his face, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, before he makes his way to the shower. He walks into the kitchen, fully dressed, fifteen minutes later. Zayn puts a plate of eggs and toast before him and then goes back to making tea for them both.

“What’s wrong with Liam?” Harry asks through a mouthful of egg.

Zayn makes a face before replying with a quiet, “Cold.”

“Oh,” he swallows, “Maybe we should see him after work?”

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” Zayn says quickly and Harry raises his eyebrows. “I don’t need both of you sick, yeah? It’ll be me ‘n’ Niall ‘n’ nothin’ will get done,” he smiles and Harry’s face relaxes.

“True,” he smiles.

After the accident, Harry couldn’t bring himself to go back to the restaurant. He couldn’t face the sympathetic glances and coddling coworkers. They didn’t know the whole story, really, but it was too much to deal with anyway. Zayn got him a job at the record shop his uncle Marcus owns. It’s small, and the only employees are Zayn, Liam, Niall, and himself, but Harry thinks it’s better than nothing.

\---

Work is work, and the customers are sparse and ask Harry stupid questions, and it’s a normal day. They play _My Head Is An Animal_ on vinyl and Zayn smokes weed behind the cash register, his feet propped up and crossed on the counter. As soon as the clock hits 5, Harry says a quick goodbye to Zayn and leaves him to close up. And if Zayn throws him a sad, knowing look, he ignores it completely.

\---

It’s not until Harry’s sat on his usual barstool at his usual haunt that he remembers last nights’ heart stopping turn of events. He whips his head around, scanning the small pub for any sign of bright cerulean eyes. Finding the place nearly empty, he turns back to the bar only to find Damien staring back at him with a thick, raised eyebrow.

“Y’alright, mate?” Harry’s become quite fond of the young bartender in the time he’s spent at Mike’s Pub. Everyone knows him here, but he and Damien have built up a friendship. He’s young, and looks more like he walked out of Hollister advert than the slums of New Jersey. His dirty blond hair can almost always be found pulled back into a neat ponytail, and he somehow always manages to keep his skin golden, sun-kissed. He came to England with his family when he was just 5 years old. He ran away from Essex when he was 17, and, after a year of living on his mate’s sofa, he charmed his way into the job he has now. Harry thinks he’s a good lad. He plays his role, listens to Harry’s drunken woes and feeds his need, but not without the occasional ‘maybe you should see someone’ thrown in for good measure. It’s always dismissed, but he tries.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, shaking his head, “Yeah. I’m good. Whiskey.”

Damien raises his other eyebrow reaching behind him for the closest bottle of Jameson, “Jumpin’ right in tonight, then. Rough day?”

“You could say that,” he mumbles before taking a hefty swig, welcoming the smooth burn into his being. “Where’s, uh, last night, there was a guy?” Damien looks at him, unblinking. “I mean, there was a guy behind the bar.”

“Oh, yeah,” Damien nods, grabbing a wine glasses from underneath the counter and the cloth from his shoulder, “His name’s Louis. We’ve picked up some business lately. Boss man said it’s time to get some more hands back here.”

“Right.”

Damien looks up, studying his face minutely before asking, “Why? Oh, and at least make yourself useful. Help me clean glasses before the rush comes,” he’s only half joking as he throws a spare cloth at Harry.

“Dunno,” Harry lies quickly, catching the cloth and grabbing a glass from the counter top, “Just- didn’t notice ‘im when I came in is all,” his voice is quiet and Damien knows better than to step on his toes when he’s like this, so he just nods, holding a glass up to the light before bringing it back down and rubbing the stem of it again. “Is he gonna be in tonight?”

“No, actually,” Damien mumbles before turning his attention to an older business man, tie undone and suit jacket over his shoulder,  handing over a cold bottle of Heineken. He walks back over to Harry, putting the clean glasses on the shelf behind him, “He’s really new to the city, y’know? He’s moving in with his mate,” Damien turns back to lean his forearm on the bar, settling into the conversation, “He’s from somewhere up North, I think.” _Doncaster_. “I can’t remember-somewhere in Yorkshire. He’s back there gettin’ the last of his boxes today. Movin’ in with a mate a few blocks over. He’s a good lad, he is. A right laugh, too. I think you’ll like him well enough.”

Harry forces out a dark laugh and downs the rest of his drink, “Sure.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is definitely shorter than the last (a little less than a thousand words), but it's necessary. The next chapter will mainly focus on Louis, and it will be much longer. 
> 
> xx


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, this is Louis' side of October 5th in the beginning, but it switches to Harry at the very end. As always, I'd love to hear some feedback :)
> 
> also: nodibs.tumblr.com

**October 5, 2013**   
**11:13**

“Louis, honestly!” Liam’s scolding tone cuts through his rant with a hint of exhaustion and Louis sighs.

“I just – it’s _London_ , Liam! London! I can’t live in London!” He’s gesturing so wildly that Liam has half a mind to move him a few feet to the left, just to get him away from Mrs. Tomlinson’s very fragile antique picture frames.

“You couldn’t have had this revelation before you agreed to move in with Niall, got a job, or brought the first batch of boxes over?” Liam crosses his arms, right eyebrow quirked, and Louis wants to tie him up in his mother’s kitchen apron with a dab of lipstick because he doesn’t need another mum God dammit.

“I’ve never even been to London other than when I’ve gone to visit my grandfather, or – or that trip we took with the whole class of year 7!” Louis feels the panic crawl back up his spine in a creeping hot flush and busies himself by folding any article of clothing within his reach. “I don’t know how to live in London! What if I get lost on the tube? What if my coworkers hate me? I’ve only trained two shifts. God, they probably think I’m useless. I should call Pops. That’s what I need. I’ll go visit him and –“

“Louis?” Liam’s gentle tone makes Louis freeze and, when he turns to face the younger lad, his face of nearly maternal exasperation had melted into one of careful hesitancy. His hands hovered in the air for a moment before he stuffed them into the pockets of his tight blue jeans, rocking back onto his heels. “When was the last time you spoke to your grandfather?”

“I don’t remember?” and Louis really does try to recall, his eyebrows knitted together in thought, “We never spoke too often. Everybody gets busy, you know? But we’d always try to go see him every year or so. Mom’s just been so busy with the girls and the divorce and _me._ I should-“

“Louis?” His voice is even softer, and Louis stops folding the hoodie he vaguely remembers stealing from Zayn a few years back.

“Yes?”

“Your – he – Louis,” Liam pulls his hands from his pockets and rubs them over his face with pressure that causes his vision to white out before folding his arms across his chest once more. “Louis, he – your grandfather – he died.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t long after your eighteenth birthday. I-I thought you knew; I thought someone told you.”

“No,” Louis says softly, sitting down on the end of his bed. “No, no one said a thing. I, um, suppose that’s one of those things I was supposed to remember on my own?” There’s only a little bit of bitterness in his voice, and Liam doesn’t really blame him right now. He knows how frustrated Louis is with being blinded to nearly three years of his life while all his answers lie within the people closest to him – so close, but so far from every truth he craves.

“No,” Liam breathes, walking over and squatting in front of Louis, one hand on the elder’s knee, “Louis. We, we can tell you things like that. I don’t know why your mom hadn’t told you.”

Louis sighs heavily and closes his eyes, tipping his head back. “I’m just tired, Li.” He brings his head back down to look his friend in the eyes, so deeply brown and sincere and familiar. “I just want to be sat down and told everything about that time,” He raises his hand, sparing himself the same apologetic speech he’s heard a million times, “and I know it can’t happen. I’m just – I’m twenty-one, Liam, and I feel 18.” Liam squeezes his thigh sympathetically, letting Louis continue, “I have so many questions that will never be answered. Like, like whether or not I ever kissed Laura McMahon, or if I ever did get to join the footie team. If I ever fell in love, or if I ever lost my virginity – I’m hoping at least that happened at some point,” Louis laughs pitifully and everything in Liam’s chest aches with the dullest, throbbing pain that pulls and ties his guts into complex origami.

 Everything is sitting right on the tip of his tongue; every truth he’s ever kept away and every  quick cover-up he’s conjured up to cover a hint he’s let slip is there, so ready to be spilled into Louis’ ear, but he can’t do it. It’s not fair. So, swallowing hard, Liam croaks a weak, “You’ll never know how sorry I am. I wish – I wish I could tell you everything. I want nothing more than to shake you until you see everything I can’t un-see.”

Louis runs a shaky hand through Liam’s short hair and nods his head in small movements.

\---

“Oi! Liam, get your fat arse down here and help me!” Niall did not sign up for this. “I did not sign up for this, Tomlinson,” he throws over his shoulder for good measure.

“Oh, suck it up. You’ve been saying you wanted to go to the gym! Think of this as a warm up.”

“Warm up my arse,” he grumbles.

“Gladly,” Louis says with a raunchy smirk.

“Fuck off. Jesus, what’s in this box?”

“Clothes.”

“ _Clothes?!_ More like a bloody walrus, that!” They reach the top of the stairs and Niall throws the box on the floor with a resounding ‘thud’ before throwing himself over it dramatically, “Go on without me.”

Louis pauses,  “And I’m going to be the drama teacher?”

“Don’t hate me because you ain’t me.”

“Niall?”

“Yes?”

“Never say that again.”

“Rodger that.”

\---

“When’s Zayn getting back?” Louis has his feet propped up on the coffee table, crossed and bare.

“What time is it – half five? He’s probably just finishing closing up. He shouldn’t be too much longer.” Liam calls from the kitchen where he’s carefully scanning Niall’s collection of take-out menus.

“He needs to get back so we can order. I’m starving. Can’t he make the other guy close?” Louis throws himself deeper into the couch with an abject whine.

Niall freezes and looks over Louis’ relaxed face carefully, “Other guy?”

Louis turns his head lazily, “Yeah? I asked Zayn for a job at the shop when I first decided to come here. He said his uncle wouldn’t go for it because you lot work there and another guy. I’m guessing that’s who was with him today since you both were with me,” Louis looking at him skeptically now.

Liam comes around the back of the couch and perches on the armrest on Louis’ other side, looking his head at Niall with cautious eyes. “That’s right, Lou. Hey, speakin’ of, where do you work? I remember you sayin’ it was a bartendin’ gig, but we never really went into detail.” Niall throws a thankful look back over to Liam for the distraction. They should be better at this by now.

“A little place not far from here, actually,” and Louis visibly lightens at the mention of his new job, “It’s not much to look at, but the people there are aces, honestly. Ever been to Mike’s Pub?” The room is silent; Niall and Liam are staring with wide eyes at each other, communicating their panic. Louis feels them both tense at the same time and pauses, “I’ll take that as a yes?”

Liam’s throat is dry, his head is light, his chest is tight, “Once or twice.”

\---

“Fuck.”

“I know,” Liam mumbles into Zayn’s chest. It’s here, in their flat, on their couch, settled into his spot on top of Zayn that he feels the weight of the day.

“What are we going to do?” Zayn brings his hand up to run his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Liam’s neck.

“What can we do?” Liam closes his eyes, “It’s not like we can really make Louis quit.”

“What if- what if we try to take Harry to a new place?”

Liam considers him for a second before sighing, “No. Harry’s a creature of habit. He’s too comfortable.”

“So, we’re fucked?”

“We’re fucked.”

\---

“I’m so fucked.” Harry

“You’re pretty well fucked,” Damien agrees, “Hence why you’re cut off.” Harry breathes out shakily and Damien eyes him for a second before frowning. The bar’s nearly empty save for Harry and a semi-regular girl who’s three drinks in to her latest heartbreak. He makes a mental note to offer her a ride home before whipping out his cellphone and dialing an all too familiar number.

\---

“Zayny baby!” Harry throws himself around a pajama-clad Zayn in a drunken octopus hug, completely disregarding, or not noticing, his stern expression.

“Hi, Zayn,” Damien calls out softly, apologies written all over his face.

“Hey, Dami,” Zayn sighs, pulling Harry from his body limb by limb.

“Sorry about ‘im,” he shakes his head sadly, “I tried to talk to him again, but he wasn’t having any of it.”

“ ‘s alright,” Zayn half-lies. “Not much you can do, right? I know how he is.” Harry’s too drunk to care that they’re talking about him as if he isn’t there, so he just leans most of his body weight on Zayn and vaguely regards himself as a suckerfish, his shorter friend his own personal shark. He wonders briefly how Liam would feel about this scenario before his mind wanders in the direction of movie titles that begin with the letter “C.”

“Just wanted to make sure he’s alright for the night, man. He was goin’ for it tonight. I’m not sure what set him off. He mentioned having a bad day or summat.”

“Casablanca.” Harry says with a nod, lips pursed. He’s happy with that decision.

Zayn looks at him quickly before turning back to the bartender he’s come to know over countless trips such as this, “I appreciate it, man. Just wish it weren’t necessary.”

“You and I both,” Damien says truthfully. It’s his job to provide customers with their brand of poison, but that doesn’t mean he can stand to watch people like Harry take it back the way they do. He knows, deep down, Zayn, Liam, and Niall have to resent him. How can they not? He provides Harry with the one thing that they wish to keep him from; he calls them out of bed in the middle of the night to pick up their little drunkard, and he thinks Harry’s lucky to have the friends he does.

“Thanks for the call, mate. I’m sure I’ll see you around,” Zayn throws him a half smile and wave before dragging a giggly, handsy Harry back to his car.

“No,” Harry draws his eyebrows together as Zayn helps him buckle his seatbelt, “Cinderella,” he pauses, considering, “Yes. Cinderella.”

Zayn spares him a glance before throwing the car into reverse, “Let’s go, princess. You’ve turned into a pumpkin.” 


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is very much appreciated. i love hearing your thoughts on what's happening and what you think will happen. :)
> 
> i have tumblr: nodibs.tumblr.com - feel free to ask me stuff or just say hi, too. i'll be posting notifications on updates there as well. i'd like to keep the posting regular, though.
> 
> xx

**October 6, 2013**  
 **07:28**  

“Jesus, fuck!” Harry’s rudely awoken by sudden sunlight assaulting his sensitive eyes before his hangover could rouse him.

“Rise and shine, princess,” Liam spits at him, tucking the curtains in their respective hooks carefully.

It doesn’t take rolling over onto his stomach and shoving his face into the cold side of his pillow, discovering it doesn’t smell much like him or the gross combination of sweat and stale alcohol to realize he’s in Liam and Zayn’s guestroom. He does it anyway, though.

“Zayn is cooking breakfast. You’ve got five minutes.” Liam leaves the room without sparing him another glance and Harry feels the impending conversation hanging in the air. With a defeated sigh, he pulls himself out of bed to find he’s dressed in soft, grey sweatpants and makes a mental note to thank whoever dragged his sorry arse home.

He reaches the kitchen and pauses in the doorway. Liam and Zayn are buzzing around the kitchen in the kind of calm routine that only comes with practice. He remembers Louis once told him that they’d been pussyfooting around their feelings since year seven, and, at the time, Harry had laughed himself to the point of tears, because _Zayn_ and _Liam_? And in the face of tragedy, of Louis accident and the anxious misery it generated, it turned out that yes, Zayn and Liam.

“You gonna join us or what, Curly?” Zayn’s looking at him with a small, forced smile, and that’s when Harry decides Zayn picked him up last night. He’s trying very hard to show Liam how ‘not mad’ he is at Harry in a feeble attempt to defuse or delay his boyfriend’s verbal time-bomb.

Harry smiles gratefully at him and hopes everything he wants to say is conveyed in the small gesture, but isn’t foolish enough to believe it is. He sits to the right of Zayn, across from Liam, and sips his orange juice. It’s quiet, tense, and Harry’s really not sure he can take it, would rather brace and fire than wait in the eye of the storm, and it’s imprudent and selfish, but that’s who he is these days anyway.

He sets his fork down with a gentle hand and wipes his mouth with the soft napkin on his lap before asking, “So, were you guys planning on telling me that Louis’ moved back to London, or?” and it’s like whatever dark, ominous cloud that had been hanging over the kitchen table had been cut down to fall before them. He says it with such detachment that the others almost miss the question entirely, but they don’t and they freeze – Zayn with a fork halfway to his mouth and Liam with a white-knuckle grip around his glass.

Liam’s shoulders sag and he brings his hands up to rub his face – something he’s been doing considerably more of lately – glancing to Zayn and then Harry, “Haz, we… didn’t really know how to tell you.”

Harry nods at that and picks his fork back up, “You knew ‘bout his job then.”

“No, actually,” Liam says quickly, “We just found out where he’s at last night. We’re not that cruel, Harry. Had we known, we would’ve tried to do something,” his voice is pleading.

“ ‘S alright,” Harry lies easily, “Was a bit of a shock to see ‘im behind the bar a few nights back,” Zayn drops his fork finally, throwing his head into his hands with a whispered ‘fuck’, “He’s got a new haircut,” he throws in offhandedly, recalling Louis carefully quaffed hair.

“Did he recognize you?” Zayn asks carefully, lifting his head with an uneasy stare.

“What do you fucking think, Zayn?” Harry bites quickly, staring at him with open, visible hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn calls quickly, grabbing Harry’s left hand in his own, “I really am. I- I just- it’s the first time he’s seen you since- since it all happened, you know? We’re still trying with him.”

Harry stares at him for a moment before nodding once, accepting his apology. He looks back to Liam only to see his eyes cast down on Harry’s chest, on the silver ring that still hangs from a chain around his neck. He lifts his hand to grab hold of the ring, as if to block it from Liam’s judgmental gaze.

Liam quickly breaks his stare and lifts his eyes to Harry’s, “Harry, maybe…maybe it’s time to see someone, yeah? If not for you, for Louis,” his tone is so soft, and Harry sees red.

“For Louis? For Louis. Really, Liam? He’s the reason I’m here in the first place,” his voice is low and dangerous, every muscle in his body is tense, like a snake, coiled and ready to strike.

“He never would have wanted this for you, Harry! You know that! It’s not his fault he doesn’t remember!” Liam’s gesturing wildly with his hands, rooted to his chair, desperate for Harry to really hear him.

“That’s the point, isn’t it, Liam? He doesn’t fucking remember anything! He doesn’t remember a bloody fucking thing, so why should I have to?” Harry stands quickly, his chair scraping the floor with a harsh, protesting screech against cold tile. He throws his napkin onto the table and storms out of the apartment, still clad in only borrowed sweatpants, and walks quickly past three doors, knocking loudly on the fourth.

“What, in the name of all that is holy, do you want, you insufferable twat?” Niall isn’t a morning person.

“I need a ride home,” and it must be his tone that forces Niall’s eyes completely open. He scans Harry’s face with annoying detail. If Harry notices how Niall closes the door in a little more than necessary, he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay.”

\---

Harry doesn’t go to Mike’s; instead, he sits at home, in his bed, clutching a bottle of vodka to his chest, wrapped in Louis’ favorite blanket. He hears the echoes of residual energy, the footsteps that aren’t there. He feels the shadows close in around him and all he wants is to rip himself open. It’s sometimes, most times, that all Harry craves is to reach inside his skin and pull Louis out of him, to pull out every toxic night he’s spent desperately chasing answers, release, death from glass bottles.

Harry contemplates Hell and all it holds. Hell hath no fury like a love prematurely ended, and he thinks it would be different if they had broken up, if Louis didn’t want him, but Louis did want him; he wanted him over everyone else, wanted to _marry_ him.

And for those four months that Harry sat at Louis’ beside, he thought about the future. He thought about when Louis would wake up and when they’d get married. Now, he tries really hard not to think about the fact that, had the trailer hit fifteen centimeters to the left and Louis’ head been spared a blow, he’d be married by now.

 But, sometimes, most times, he’s not that strong, and tonight isn’t any different. He lifts the bottle to his lips, a gun in his own mind, and thinks, bitterly, that Louis isn’t the only one who can forget. 


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would love to hear some feedback, please. :)
> 
> tumblr: nodibs.tumblr.com

It takes Harry a week, seven whole days, to get himself back into a routine. Zayn, Liam, and Niall all come ‘round in turns and drag him into the shower and feed him solid food. Harry appreciates it, he does, and he’d tell them so if he had the coherency to do so. However, his most consistent companions are the bottles that he hides in various compartments of his home.

Around day four, Liam had, had enough and ripped every alcoholic drink from Harry’s house, pouring it down the drain and taking the bottles with him – just for good measure. Harry stared at the muted TV with indifference while it all was happening, hearing Liam’s frustrated rants from the kitchen, but not listening to him.

“Harry you are _killing_ yourself,” Liam had pleaded to him, gripping his countertop with force that turned his fingernails white. Harry’s eyebrow merely twitched at that, cynically thinking, ‘ _can’t kill that which is dead._ ’

And Harry tries, really tries very hard not to need it. He tries to be stronger than vices, or at least stronger than this. That is, until his hands start shaking, until the withdrawal kicks in and he aches all over with a need in the deepest pockets of his bones that drives his feet to the nearest liquor store, which happens to be across the street.

On day five, he tries to go to a bar two streets over. It’s called Kitten’s and it’s got pink walls with black trim and their bartenders serve in skimpy outfits and flirt their way to hefty tips. He leaves within the hour.

On day six, he walks fifteen minutes to a bar he used to frequent with the wait staff of the restaurant he and Louis used to work at. It turns out to still be their haunt, and they recognize Harry immediately from their spot in the farthest right corner. They stagger over and ask how he is, how Louis is, why he hasn’t been around, and Harry leaves before he can even order his first drink.

It’s day seven when he finally relents, walking with his head down, silently praying to a God he doesn’t believe in for Louis to not be working, and it seems some things never change, because God wasn’t listening.

He opens the door, head still downward, not daring to look behind the bar, and doesn’t get five feet in the building before his name’s being called, “Harry!” Damien is hopping over the bar top, sliding his tall frame to the floor and running to wrap his arms around the younger boy. Harry’s knocked back by the force, but he returns the hug with the smallest hint of a smile. Over Damien’s shoulder, he can see the bar is empty, as it usually is at this hour, save for the blue-eyed star of every nightmare he’s lived since the other awoke.

He looks at Harry and Damien with a curious expression, one of the many that are engraved in Harry’s memory. He’s got a wine glass in one hand and a cloth in the other, carefully rubbing the glass until it shines, free of imperfections. His hair is exactly as Harry remembers it from the last time he saw him, lighter still from the summer sun just months before, but carefully quaffed to compliment the dramatic slope of his cheekbones. He’s stunning.

“I thought you’d left me; I thought you’d been cheating on me with some hotshot newcomer with a severe pout and ginger afro. I was _worried_ , mate,” Damien is being overdramatic, but Harry knows he _was_ worried – not that he’d been left for a late 70’s pornstar bartender, but for an early grave- he doesn’t say so, though, knowing better.

Harry forces a hearty chuckle past his lips with the breath he has left, “As if, babes. I could never leave you,” and it’s with a reassuring pat to the older lad’s back, saying quietly ‘ _I’m here. I’m alive_ ’ that he’s let go. Damien walks back to the countertop quickly, hoisting himself over it once more, and Harry follows to his usual seat at a slower pace, trying to delay the inevitable. He entertains the idea of running, just turning around and bolting out the door and back to the safety of his flat, but it wasn’t always only his flat, and, though it doesn’t, he swears Louis’ scent lingers, and there’s really no escape from him, and so he just sits down and breathes deeply.

He hears a thud in front of him and looks up to see Damien behind the Heineken bottle in front of him. Harry takes it with a small smile and knocks it back, gulping until he can’t anymore. “How’ve you been coping without me?” Harry jokes, and he’s determined not to let them settle into awkward conversation.

“Oh, it’s been just _dreadful_ , love. I’ve missed your cheery face,” Damien’s smirking at him, and Harry can’t ignore Louis standing a few feet away, keeping his distance, his nonchalance, but Harry knows him well enough to know he’s listening.

“Oi! Need a towel for that sarcasm? You’re worse than the boys.” Harry lifts the bottle to his lips again, taking a smaller swig before allowing himself the comfort Damien’s eyes radiate. He thinks, briefly, that, that may be why he’s such a good bartender.

“I’m just havin’ a laugh,” he smiles before glancing at his watch, “As much as I’d love to chat, Haz, I’m afraid I must finish cleanin’ glasses before the rush.”

“Pass me some, I’ll help,” Harry offers because it’s what he usually does, and he needs some semblance of normalcy.

“Usually, I’d be all for it, but I can’t be givin’ new guy over there a break,” he gestures toward Louis and Louis scoffs jokingly, smiling at Harry, and, to his credit, it only slightly falters when Harry doesn’t smile back.

Damien tosses him the remote to the TV directly across from Harry’s spot at the bar, and Harry turns up the volume to a comfortable level, settling in to catch up on the football stats. He’s just about to change the channel to a high-definition channel of the same show when he hears his name whispered to his left. He keeps his face blank, takes another sip of his drink, and turns his ears to the sound.

“ ‘im? His name’s Harry – Styles, I believe. He’s nineteen, a regular, you’ll know ‘im soon enough,” Damien whispers back to what Harry assumes was a general inquiry about his person from Louis.

“I’ve seen him in here before,” Louis whispers back, lifting a glass to the light and sparing Harry a look just to make sure he’s preoccupied, “A couple of weeks ago. He just – he ran out? I dunno what happened. I asked ‘im if he wanted another drink and he just dropped his money and left.”

Damien stops cleaning his glass for a moment, and Harry knows him well enough to know that means he’s raising an eyebrow at Louis, “Well, I’ve never seen him do that before. I usually have to call his mates to pick him up when he’s too sloppy to walk straight,” and, to his credit, he says it like it’s a well-kept secret.

“What’s his story?” Louis asks innocently, and God, Harry wants to laugh. He wants to laugh until he cries, or cries until he laughs. He certainly doesn’t want to be there, sat on a stool, ten feet from a former lover who’s asking, not for the first time, who he is. Harry reaches over the bar to the counter below, where he knows Damien’s placed the whiskey and a glass from the sink and pours himself the drink quietly.

“Dunno, really. I only hear patchy versions of the same story when he’s too drunk to put it together, ya know? All I know is he’s from Cheshire, and he was in love. He was really, really in love with some guy and moved to London with him, right? And then the guy, I don’t know, I think – I think the guy died, or something like that, if I’m honest. That’s how he speaks about him, when he does, at least,” Damien’s got his sympathetic voice and Harry can’t help it, he laughs.

A hearty, real, genuine laugh that rattles his ribcage and the two bartenders look at him in shock that's laced with guilt. Harry just shakes his head, knocking back the rest of his whiskey before hitting them with a hard look and a muttered, “Something like that.” Damien opens his mouth to say something, probably apologize, but Harry cuts him off with a tight, “Vodka?” And Damien bites his lip before nodding, walking to the shelf and pulling Harry’s favorite brand in two neat shots.

Harry says nothing, Damien says nothing, and Louis certainly says nothing, and as the usual rush comes pouring in, Harry’s thankful as he gets lost in the crowd. His hands shake for different reasons, and he chases the answers, release, death that awaits him at the bottom of his glass with a new kind of reckless abandon. By the time the crowd thins, Harry’s far too drunk to feel familiar eyes burning into the side of his skull with morbid curiosity.


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling you're all gonna be quite cross with me. I'm not going to lie, both the beginning and end of this chapter are quite painful, at least in my opinion. I'd really, really appreciate feedback on this chapter. Quite a few things are explained, but not everything. Though this chapter is quite intense, I tried really hard to pay a lot of attention to detail, to make you feel Harry's pain (sorry, not nice, I know). 
> 
> nodibs.tumblr.com :)

Harry wakes up the next morning when the sun’s rays are just barely peeking through the slots in his bedroom balcony railing. He’s lying on his stomach, his face turned to the white, translucent curtains that cover two French doors leading outside. His right arm is half-hanging off the bed, knuckles grazing the soft carpet, and he blinks slowly against the light. “Louis,” he mutters softly, turning his face to nuzzle into the pillow. He’s not completely awake yet, and so he says again, “Louis.”

He opens his eyes completely, staring down the intruding light with his lips pressed together tightly. He rolls onto his back before testing out the weight of the word again, “Louis,” he says, and his tongue feels clumsy, his teeth a bit furry, and he should probably get up and brush them, take a shower, start his day, but instead he says it again, “Louis,” a bit louder, a bit more reckless. “Louis,” he says even louder, a questioning edge to it, as if Louis were just in the living room and Harry were about to ask him to come to bed. “Louis!” Harry shouts it this time, like a prayer, like a plea. He turns back over, shoving his face into his pillow and screaming, screaming his pain, his sadness, his anger away. It’s an anguished sound that rattles around his chest; the kind of cry that comes from the core of a human soul. He grabs tightly to the fabric of his comforter, hitting his pillow with his other hand. “Louis! Louis! Lou,” and he’s sobbing now. His voice is rough, his throat raw, his chest tight, and it’s minutes later, with a shaking hand, that he grabs his phone from the bedside table and dials a very familiar number.

It rings three times before he’s instantly put at ease, “Mum, I’m coming home.”

\---

Harry wasn’t one for driving much after Louis’ accident. He knows it was just bad timing. Louis was in the wrong place at the wrong time and everything was just _wrong_ , but he still found himself walking anywhere he could, taking the tube if he needed to. His visits back home became few and far between, so when he pulls his car into the driveway of his childhood home, he’s instantly greeted by his mother who wraps his tall frame in her arms as if he were still in year six, a little boy grieving the loss of his dog. He feels so small, so safe, so loved that he has to bite his lip to hold back his tears of gratitude, of relief.

“My baby’s home,” Anne whispers into his hair, holding him even closer, and any semblance of composure he’d had is gone. He shudders a moment, choking out a horrid sound before holding her just as tightly.

Eventually, they break apart with watery smiles and small laughs. Having been too caught up in his reunion, Harry failed to notice a familiar car parked on the street outside his home. When he walks through the front door with his mother, though, he definitely does not miss the neatly styled black hair and piercing blue eyes that sit with a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

“Hi, Jay,” he says, and, really, he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. His and Louis’ mother’s remained good friends after the accident, and even he met with Jay on occasion – not that Louis ever knew it.

“Hello, Harry,” and she smiles at him, warm and inviting in the way only a mother could manage, from her seat.

“You alright?” He asks, crossing the room and taking the seat across from her, thanking his mother softly as she hands him his own cup of tea.

“I am love. How are you?” and she gives him a look over her cup like she knows the answer, but Harry decides to ignore it.

“I’m okay,” he forces his lips to upturn the slightest bit, and they know he’s lying. “What are you doing all the way over here anyway?”

“Your mum and I are actually in a secret relationship. We thought it time you know,” her voice is that of complete sincerity, but the smallest twitch of her lips gives her away.

“Well, this just makes my history with your son all the more awkward,” and Harry really does mean for it to be lighthearted, witty, but his throat tenses around the words. He figures he might as well broach the subject now, “Speaking of, how is he?” and it’s not an unusual question for Harry to ask. Every time he’s met up with Jay or seen her about, he ends up asking it at some point. He doesn’t push it much, just gently inquires about Louis’ wellbeing.

“Good, good. He’s good,” Jay’s nodding and not meeting his eyes, and at the edges of his peripheral vision, he can see his mother sit down slowly at the head of the table.

Harry hums with a taut smile, “Yeah, yeah. How’s he liking London?” he sounds indifferent, but he says it with purpose, and Anne sighs heavily. Jay doesn’t even flinch.

“He was nervous at first. I think he’s starting to settle in. It helps that he’s got people he knows with him,” she answers truthfully, and it wasn’t even intended to hurt him, but god does that last part sting. “He – Liam had to tell him about, about his grandfather having passed just last week. We – there was so much, and we didn’t know and couldn’t remember and – it just – we never told him.”

Harry nods, taking another sip of his tea before replying, “He’s not made any progress then.” It’s not a question, and Jay doesn’t take it as such. Every three months that Louis doesn’t remember things about the time he lost, his chance of ever remembering drops. His chances are now below twenty percent, and, though they try to remain hopeful, it’s hard not to face doubt.

“No, but we’re still trying with him,” and Harry remembers Zayn saying the same thing not long ago.

“The boys have brought him ‘round then?” Anne asks quietly, knowing how much this topic pains him.

“No, actually,” he clears his throat, looking them both in the eyes before continuing, “They never even told me he’d moved back. I – ran into him.”

“Oh, Harry,” Anne sighs, “Fancy that – you running into him. London’s such a big place,” she places her hand on his arm and rubs soothingly.

“Where at?” Jay asks coolly.

“Mike’s,” he swallows and won’t meet his mother’s eye. She’d be blind to not know of Harry’s demons, and, to her credit, she has tried to help, but some people don’t want to be saved, “He’s their newest bartender.”

“Wow,” Anne sits back in her chair.

“Fancy that,” Jay says, and Harry knows that tone of voice.

“Yeah,” he looks at her, unblinking, “Fancy that.”

They sit in a tense quiet for a moment before Anne catches on. She looks back and forth between the two, who are staring at each other, before she places her cup down carefully. “Jay?” she asks cautiously, “Jay, did – did you know that Louis had applied there?”

Jay doesn’t break her eye contact with Harry as she replies, “I suggested he did.” Anne gasps and Harry finally breaks her stare, throwing his head into his hands and rubbing tight circles on his temples.

“Why?” is the only thing he can stand to ask her, and it’s such a desperate tone that Jay couldn’t lie if she wanted to.

“He needed a job, and he didn’t really know what to do. I – I just thought – I talked it over with Niall, and he agreed that it might trigger his memory if he saw you, really saw you there,” and she sounds guilty enough, so Harry doesn’t tell her all the things he’s thinking at that moment. He stays quiet, replaying her explanation in his brain until his mind gets hung up on a particular part of it.

“Niall?” He lifts his head, confusion clouding his expression, “Niall knew?”

“Yes,” Jay nodded, “Last time he was over before the move started, I talked to him about it. We all want him back, Harry; we all want it to go back to the way it was. We just want to try everything,” and she grabs his hands, desperate for him to understand.

“So did Liam and Zayn know, too?” he can feel the rage making his muscles tense. He doesn’t want to believe they’ve lied to him, but if Niall of all people could keep this from him, he won’t put it past them.

“No,” Jay shakes her head, rubbing her thumbs over the tops of his hands, “As far as I know, he kept it quiet – even played dumb with Louis.”

“He should have told me,” Harry mutters.

“How? How was he supposed to tell you that, Harry?” She searches his eyes, trying to pick apart his emotions, and Anne watches it happen with a defeated expression.

Harry understands what she means, everything she’s not saying, but he just wants to wallow in the unfairness of it all. He thinks of the escape that waits him at home, and he thinks he can bear to cut this trip a bit short.

\---

Harry makes it back to London at a quarter ‘til one in the afternoon. He drives straight to the record store and doesn’t hesitate before clocking-in and helping Liam sort through a new shipment of contemporary vinyl. He managed to calm down on the drive back to London, pushing all thoughts of the situation away, and he even manages to smile fondly when he puts on Michael Jackson’s _Greatest Hits_ and Liam sings along.

It comes to a screeching halt, though, when Zayn and Niall walk through the door of the shop laughing with bright eyes and McDonald’s bags. “Harry! You’re just in time. We went ahead and got your usual,” and maybe it wouldn’t bother Harry if Niall’s voice weren’t so casual, so innocent, like he hadn’t been an accomplice in a plot, a plan, an idea that he _knew_ could push him over the edge, absolutely ruin him, and so Harry is frozen in his spot behind the “M” row of the popular section, Mumford  & Sons latest album in hand.

The other three have converged on the checkout counter, splitting the bags open and separating the orders amongst them. Liam spares him a look over his shoulder, “Harry? C’mon, mate, before it goes cold.”

When he doesn’t even blink at Liam’s words, they all slowly turn to look at him. The air tenses considerably, and Harry’s staring holes into Niall’s forehead. The blond boy turns to his other friends before taking a tentative step away from the counter, toward Harry, but not daring to go any farther. “Harry?” he tries, “You alright?” He looks back at Liam, but Liam only shrugs as if to say ‘he was fine earlier.’ “Hazza? Shit,” Niall runs his hand over the side of his face, sighing like it all makes sense now, “Haz, have you been drinking?”

“Fuck you,” Harry croaks out.

Niall actually takes a step back at that and turns to look at Liam and Zayn who both have their eyebrows raised. They’ve all had their fair share of spats over their time as friends, but Harry and Niall were always the least combative, forever the peacemakers.

“I beg your pardon?” Niall’s voice is filled with confusion, and, for some reason, it makes Harry even angrier.

“I said fuck you, Niall. _Fuck_ you. How could you?” Harry’s eyebrows draw together in genuine hurt, and he finally places the CD in his hand down with force, not breaking eye contact with the other.

“How – what? Harry, I – what have I done? I don’t understand,” and Niall looks so upset, so, so confused as he searches Harry for any sign of what he could be referring to. “If it’s what I said, I- I mean I’m sorry, but, but lately it’s – you have a tendency to. I mean, you drink quite a bit, and I – you just had that look like – I’m sorry?”

Harry laughs, shaking his head, condescending, “You really don’t get it, do you?” Niall shakes his head sadly, and Harry purses his lips in annoyance. “You knew. You knew, Niall. You didn’t just know, you helped, you suggested, you thought it a _good_ idea to shove Louis back into my life like that – without any notice?” If looks could kill, Niall would be aflame whilst Harry spits his words like bullets, “In what bloody universe do you live where that is okay? It’s been nearly two years, Niall. You really think havin’ ‘im look at my sorry arse sat drinking away every part of him away from any part of me is really going to just give his memory a jog? I get it, you’re all still ‘trying with him,” Harry scrunches his nose, throwing in the air quotes for good measure, “but how, how could you possibly think it a good idea to throw him into the only place I find peace? How dare you take away that solace from me?”

Liam and Zayn are looking between the two with disbelief, confusion, and tangible anxiety, but Niall isn’t even attempting to lie to him, “What was I supposed to say, Harry? Huh?” Niall’s voice is raised but tense, a lump building itself in the back of his throat, “What, ‘Oh, hey, Harry, guess what? Louis’ moved back and we’re pretty sure he still doesn’t remember anything about you, but, look, it’s alright! He’s gotten a job at Mike’s and he’ll be seein’ you quite often, if you keep up that habit. You never know, it could just be the push he needs.’ Is that what you wanted?” Niall’s out of breath and Harry has tears in his eyes. “I told Jay it was a good idea because you it was either gonna help Louis remember, or it would drive you out of there. It was a win, win situation at the time,” his voice softens, looking at Harry with apologies written on every inch of his skin.

Harry sucks in a deep breath, letting a tear roll down his cheek and settle into the dip at the corner of his lips, “It would have been better than being blindsided,” his voice is small, exhausted. “You know, I almost think I could have handled it all better if he hadn’t survived,” Harry’s shaking his head, looking down at his hands then up toward the ceiling, breathing deeply, and they all know it’s a lie, but they let him go on anyway, “and that’s such a shitty thing to say. I thank God every day that he’s alive, but I- he – at least he’d know how completely loved he was. He’d have gone in love and loved by me, and I wouldn’t have to think, every second I’m awake, or dream, every moment I’m asleep, about how he’s out there, somewhere, with no idea of who I am or what we shared, and that,” he sucks in a shaky breath, rubbing tears from his eyes, eyelashes starting to clump and stick together, “that fucking hurts.” Harry raises his eyes to Niall’s to find his own blue eyes bloodshot and shining with his unshed sympathy, “I-I can’t live with myself. I can’t – knowing I’m not worth remembering,” and Harry notices Zayn going to protest from just behind Niall, but he pushes on, “I _miss_ him. That – that’s why I drink. I drink to forget him, to forget how weak and pathetic I am without him. I drink to forget how much I need him, how much he ruined me on his way out. I drink to be numb to all the ways I miss him, to burn out the residual hurt that rests inside me like a lead weight. I drink because it’s the only thing I have left.” He takes another look at his three friends, all completely deflated, shedding silent tears, and making no move to rebut him. He curls and flexes his fingers slowly before walking past his friends, and he only pauses once he’s got his hand on the door as his name’s called.

“Harry,” Niall rasps, “You’re killing yourself.”

Harry shakes his head at that, “I was dead long before I put that first bottle to my lips,” and with that, he exits the shop, climbs into his car, and drives back to his flat with every intention locking his doors and slipping into his poison. 


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii! So, as usual, I'd really appreciate some feedback. I mean to update this yesterday, but I got a little sidetracked. My friend ended up taking to me to explore an abandoned hospital (it sounds incredibly creepy, and it was, trust me), but it was oddly peaceful and it made me think quite a lot. It sounds weird, but I'm actually glad I went. 
> 
> Anyway, the story's starting to kick into full swing. Let the games begin.

When Harry arrives at Mike’s that night, he’s already drunk and later than he usually would be. It’s for that reason that, when he finally shifts through the growing crowd of slightly-lesser drunks, he finds his usual barstool to be occupied. He pauses only long enough to scowl hatefully at the back of the man he dubs ‘Stool-Stealer’s head before taking the empty one next to him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” Damien asks without looking up from the careful row of shots he’s pouring. He’s sweating a bit, and his usually pulled-back dirty blond locks are down around his shoulders, tucked behind his ears.

“’ello, love,” Harry shoots his forehead a wide smile, baring his teeth.

Damien looks up at the sound of his voice, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline upon noticing Harry’s smile. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Harry smile in a way that didn’t look like he was in pain from the attempt. “Holy shit. You have dimples,” and it wasn’t what he meant to say, but it’ll do.

“That I do, Dami boy,” Harry says, unblinking, smile not faltering.

Damien lowers one eyebrow slightly, giving off the slightest air of suspicion as he looks Harry over. “You’ve been drinking. How long have you been here? I didn’t notice you come in. It’s busy and all,” he waves his hand in a vague gesture to the rest of the bar which he’s kindly let Louis to deal with alone now.

“Just got here, actually,” Harry says, pointedly ignoring that first part.

“Usual then?” Damien asks, reaching to his left and hitting the top of the sliding cooler door that holds frozen mugs.

“No, thank you,” Harry purses his lips now. He really does not want beer, and he tries his hardest not to scoff or condescend Damien for assuming so despite his previous assumption. “Shots,” he says decidedly. “A round. On me. Your choice.”

Damien goes to ask him if he’s sure, talk him out of it, but the guy next to them, Stool-Stealer, hears him and cheers heartily, slapping the bar top and announcing it to the rest of them.

Harry sends an unamused look to the side of Stool-Stealer’s head before turning back to Damien. “Everyone but him,” he says bitterly, pointing to where the bloke next to him has started talking to the woman to his left.

\---

Four hours later and Harry’s the last one in the bar. He’s given up on trying to balance his head, which feels like a bloody brick, mind you, and has it rested on the cool counter, watching silently as Louis and Damien patter around to do their closing side work.

Had it been anyone else, Damien would have kicked them out by now, or have called them a cab at most. He’s always felt for Harry, though, and so it’s only after Harry closes his eyes that he turns to Louis, “Hey, mate, I’ve gotta make a phone call. Can you take these glasses off me?” Louis turns from where he’s taking inventory and nods, grabbing the tray of clean glasses and placing them on the shelves he has to tiptoe to reach.

Damien smiles gratefully and reaches into his back pocket with his now-free hand and leans against the back counter, eyeing Harry sadly. He dials a familiar number and waits three rings before it’s answered. It’s a practiced call, really. An answer, a greeting, a “Harry then?”, a confirmation, “See you soon,” and a beep declaring the call over.

When he slips the phone back into his pocket, he turns to Louis who’s side-eyeing him in a way Damien knows he thinks is sneaky. “Out with it then,” he smiles at the shorter lad.

Louis smiles back, “I-uh. Should I?” Louis pauses, tilting his head quickly toward the resting man at the other end of the bar.

“No, no,” Damien shakes his head, dropping eye contact, “Someone’s on their way for him.”

“Does he do this often?” Louis eyebrows are scrunched together, and he keeps switching his gaze between Damien’s face and Harry’s still frame.

“More than anyone’d like, yeah.”

“He – doesn’t seem so bad,” Louis shrugs, “I mean, I haven’t spoken to him much, but he seems alright.”

“He is,” Damien nods, “He’s a good lad, he is,” he sighs, rubbing the sides of his face, trying to ease the pressure from his skull, “Just has a problem with the drink, that’s all.”

Louis makes a small noise of understanding and goes back to taking inventory, Damien joining after taking another long look at Harry’s frame, watching his back rise and fall with his breaths. It’s ten minutes later when they feel the change in atmosphere as the door opens, and Damien throws a look over his shoulder, smiling at a sleepy tuff of blond hair.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Horan!” Damien’s smiling as he hoists himself on the bar top, spinning, and dropping himself down to the floor to engulf Niall in a tight hug.

Louis spins slowly on his heel, taking in the sight of his coworker pulling away from his roommate. “Niall? What are you doin’ here, mate?” He’s running through the feasible reasons for his appearance, but he can’t think of anything concrete. He should know they’re closed now, Louis hadn’t asked for a ride anywhere, and he doubted Liam and Zayn were back in Niall’s Range Rover waiting for them to be carted off to some posh London night club.

“Hi, Lou,” Niall smiles fondly at his friend, “I’ve got the short straw this time, got called in to pick up some baggage,” he directs the joke at Damien who lets out a small laugh. Louis is confused for two seconds before Niall walks up to the man at the bar and tugs on his arm, “C’mon, Harry. It’s time to go.” And, oh. That wasn’t a possibility he had considered.

“You know him?” Louis raises an eyebrow at his roommate and Niall looks up, looks like he’s gonna say something, but coughs at the last minute.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, pulling Harry from his spot, “I do.” He finally gets Harry to his feet, immediately throwing an arm around his waist to help balance his weight as he stumbles a bit. “I’ll see you back at home, Lou. G’night, Damien.” And just like that, he’s gone. He half-carries Harry to his car, shoves him in the back seat, and buckles the middle strap around his torso, connecting just under his armpit.

\---

Harry awakes the next morning on what he is sure is a couch. His legs are folded up awkwardly and his face feels tacky with his own drool against smooth leather. He cracks his eyes to find blue ones staring back at him, setting a glass of water and two pills on the coffee table in front of him, hands frozen as their owner notices the light stir of the lanky teenager, and, just for a moment, Harry forgets.

“Thanks, Louis,” he mumbles, almost incoherently, against the cushion and blinking lazily.

“Uh,” Louis falters momentarily, “No problem, mate,” he sends an awkward smile to Harry’s half-open eyes, and that’s enough to force him to surface.

Harry groans, turning over onto his back and bringing his hands up to rub against his face, pushing and pulling at his skin until it feels raw and sensitive. When he’s discretely wiped the drool from his cheek, he turns back to look at Louis, but before Louis can say anything else, Harry’s taken notice to what the couch feels like beneath him and the beige colored walls behind sleep-tousled caramel hair. “I’m at Niall’s.”

It’s not a question, but Louis responds anyway, still crouched in front of the other. He hesitates for a second before nodding slowly, “Yeah.” His voice is soft and has a rough, throaty quality to it that only lingers just after he’s woken up, before he’s had his morning cup of tea.

Harry sighs, closing his eyes. So, this is his life now. He’s lying, hung-over, on the couch of a traitor while the sole handler of Harry’s heart plays nurse to his condition. He turns his head toward Louis again but doesn’t look him in the eyes, focusing on the potted fern in the corner of the room instead. “I’ll put the kettle on.” He gets up slowly and leaves Louis where he was, still crouched in front of the couch, water and medication abandoned.

He fumbles around the kitchen for approximately thirty seconds before he catches a bouncing blond quiff and pale skin out of the corner of his eye. “Niall,” Harry greets coldly. Niall stops rushing about the kitchen, instantly freezing. He turns from his spot, bent in front of the refrigerator, and turns to stare at the side of Harry’s head.

“Harry,” he responds softly.

“Fancy a cuppa?” Harry asks dully.

“No, thanks,” Niall’s voice is even softer than before, and Harry feels the anger rising in him. Part of it is left over from the day before and part of it is his knowing that Niall pities him, is speaking to him so carefully, treating Harry like porcelain, because he feels sorry for him.

“How ‘bout you say what you want to fucking say then,” his voice doesn’t waver, but Niall knows better.

“Harry, I,” Niall hesitates before reaching his arm out and turning the taller lad to face him, forcing him into this conversation, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry about yesterday and every day I never told you what was really happening. I should have. I should have told you,” Niall checks over his shoulder and drops his voice down to a whisper, “I should have told you Louis was moving back, was moving in with me, and was starting up at Mike’s. I should’ve at least told you that, but, please, just please try to see it from my shoes, yeah? How was I supposed to do that? I’m in such a delicate position – stuck between two friends, both of whom I’d take a bullet for, and I can’t protect both of you all of the time. We’re family. I love you. I would do anything for you. I hope you know that.” His face is twisted into the most sincere frown, and Harry knows he means every word and so he decides to let it go. He’s tired of being angry.

“I know,” he whispers, throwing an arm around Niall’s shoulder and pulling him to his chest, “I love you, too. I’m – I’m a – I’m sorry.” Niall wraps his arms around Harry’s middle, holding on a little tighter than usual.

They break apart and Niall glances at his watch, “Shit! I’m so late.” He runs to his kitchen table, grabbing a backpack out of one of the chairs and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Hey, wait up. I need a ride home,” Harry speaks up, patting down his pockets for his phone.

“I don’t have time.”

“What?” Harry freezes, throwing  a puzzled look at his Irish friend.

“Harry, you live in the opposite direction of campus and my microeconomics class starts in ten minutes. I’m sorry, mate,” Niall spares him a look as he shoves his feet into dirty trainers, knotting the laces messily.

“What am I supposed to do?” Harry lifts and drops his arms, hitting his thighs in exasperation.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Niall sighs, frustrated, “Call up Liam or Zayn and ask for a lift. They’re at the shop. I’m sorry, really,” he pats Harry on the back as he zooms by him to the front door, “Bye!” he calls out over his shoulder.

Harry leans his head on the cabinets in front of him, cursing the universe. He hears the kettle go off and grabs a single glass from the cupboard and seems to do the rest on autopilot. He walks back into the living room to find Louis sat on the couch, remote in hand, watching the news. Harry walks between the couch and coffee table, being careful of Louis bare feet, and hands the cup of tea to the older lad gently.

“For me?” Louis asks carefully and Harry nods once before picking the pain killers and glass of water and knocking them back.

“Thanks,” Louis mutters, taking a careful sip. “Oh, Harry, this is wonderful. You must be a mind reader. This is exactly how I take me tea. Did Niall tell you or somethin’?” Louis is using that voice, the one that Harry hates. The one that he only uses when he’s trying to charm someone he thinks he has to win over, someone he thinks doesn’t like him much. He’s using it on _Harry_ of all people, and that makes Harry even more aggravated.

“Lucky guess,” he grits out, and he can’t do this. He can’t sit on the same couch as Louis and act like he doesn’t _know_ him, doesn’t know every minor, minute detail of him. He can’t sit less than an arm’s length away from him and act like he doesn’t know how Louis takes his tea or that he can’t wake up without it. He can’t pretend like he doesn’t know that Louis has watched _Beauty and the Beast_ more than twenty times, not always with his little sisters, or that he sings songs from _Grease_ in the shower when he thinks no one is home. He can’t be there, not when he knows how the soft skin at the base of Louis’ neck tastes at this hour, how it feels to be intimately entwined with his small frame, not when he knows what Louis looks like when he comes. He can’t do this.

He takes one last sip of his water before standing up, “I should really get going.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. I’m sure – I’ m sure I’ll be seeing you around,” Louis smiles at him, the smile that Harry hates, because Louis’ still trying to ‘win him over’ in his mind, “What with you knowing Niall and the pub and all.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry shrugs, walking toward the kitchen and placing his glass in the sink. He ducks under the kitchen table and grabs his shoes from the corner he knows Niall threw them in before walking back into the living room, taking a sharp right to head toward the door throwing a, “I can show myself out,” as he feels Louis go to get up.

When he’s back outside, surrounded by air that doesn’t smell like Louis, Yorkshire tea, or the lethal combination of both, he breathes deeply, closing his eyes against the sun’s spiteful rays. He makes his way over to a bench seated just outside the complex’s front revolving door and calls for a cab. In those fifteen minutes he waits, he recalls the thought he had earlier. So, this is his life now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com :) 
> 
> x


	9. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I mean to post this yesterday, and then this morning, but got called in to work twice. *insert long sigh*  
> Here's chapter eight! I would love to hear your thoughts now that it's starting to pick up. :)

 

The next morning finds Harry asleep on top of his duvet in all his clothes from the night before until the shrill sounds of an alarm he didn’t set on his phone goes off and forces him into consciousness. He wiggles uncomfortably as he opens his eyes, his body feeling heavy and slightly overheated. He holds his breath, finding the strenght to sit up, and immediately regrets it, leaning his spinning head between his legs, breathing deeply.

Louis hadn’t been at work the night before. Upon catching Harry glancing around for him in what was supposed to be a discreet way, he’d explained that Mondays are too slow to warrant having two bartenders on the clock. Harry acted indifferent, wanted to be indifferent, and couldn’t really decide whether or not he was. Seeing Louis looking back at him with absolutely no recognition was nearly unbearable. He’d spent many nights dreaming of those cerulean orbs, the light they used to hold for him, and the last time he’d seen it before that light went out. Call him a masochist, but now that Louis was so close, all tan skin and tangible, he knew he was fighting a losing battle by trying to stay away.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry lifts his head again. He lets his small dizzy spell pass before rising to his feet and going over to his closet. He grabs a dark blue knit jumper and pulls it over his head after abandoning his black t-shirt and trench coat on the floor. He decides to not change his dark skinny jeans or white Converse and walks to his en suite to brush his teeth and run a cold cloth over his face.

—-

He’s been at the shop for all of two hours, and they’ve had all of two customers, by the time Zayn wakes up from his late-afternoon nap behind the check-out counter to a frantic call from Liam whose car broke down on the outskirts of town. He throws the keys at Harry and promises to be back before five to take over as he rushes out of the door. Harry stuffs the keys in his pocket before going back to sorting Blink-182 CDs by year of release. It’s twenty minutes later when the bell above the door rings, signaling the arrival of a new customer.

“Hello. Can I help you?” Harry greets without looking up.

“Harry?” Louis. Harry looks up quickly, seeing feathered fringe instead of a quiff and knitted eyebrows and – the killer- a denim jacket one size too big for him that Harry recognizes as his. It’s something he had packed with the rest of Louis’ wardrobe to give Jay to take back with her after Louis had woken up, just to know something of his was with the older boy.

Harry fumbles the CDs in his hand, dropping a few onto the display and trying to save the others from dropping to the floor, “Louis! Uh, hi.” He’s so flustered and embarrassed and he’s going to absolutely murder Zayn Malik.

“Careful there,” Louis jokes, a small smile tugging at his lips as he steps further into the building. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I, uh, work. Here. I work here,” Harry nods, not looking at the other as he places the CDs back where they belong. With his free hand, he gestures quickly to the ‘Hello, my name is…’ sticker Zayn had decided were good enough name tags. Today, his adorns a T-Rex holding in a sign in its tiny arms that says ‘Harold.’ Zayn’s signature is scrawled small in the corner, claiming his ‘masterpiece.’

“Oh! Wow. So, you know Zayn and Liam then?” His smile is growing, and Harry, despite having a plastic cup of molten gold behind the counter not far from him, is far too sober for this.

“Yeah, yeah,” he finally has all the CDs in place and doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he crosses them over his chest in a protective manor.

The action doesn’t go unnoticed by Louis who lets his smile falter only for a second – anybody else probably wouldn’t have noticed, but Harry always notices – before he plasters on an even larger smile, the smile Harry hates, “That’s awesome. I grew up with ‘em, and Niall, actually.”

“You don’t say,” his voice is dull and his eyes uninterested, and, okay, it was almost mean, but Harry didn’t know how to react to what Louis thinks is ‘new’ information.

Louis hesitates for a moment, coughing uncomfortably and looking away from him, “Right. Um, are Zayn and Liam in?”

“Nope,” Harry says, popping the ‘p’ unneccesarily. He only elaborates when Louis raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow at him, and Harry briefly wonders when facial movement became a second form of communication. “Princess Liam’s car broke down; Knight Zayn went to rescue him.”

Harry really wasn’t trying to be funny, just snarky, but Louis laughs anyway, and it’s not the laugh that Harry hates. Harry winces at the familiar sound when Louis closes his eyes. It’s a genuine laugh, because Louis knows the dynamics of the other boys’ relationship even better than Harry does, knows how true Harry’s statement rings. Louis has always found stupid things Harry said to be funny, but Harry didn’t expect it to still happen. When Louis looks back at him, Harry smiles at him, a genuine closed-lipped smile that he knows displays the dimples Louis was once so incredibly fond of. It seems some things don’t change, and he can see Louis’ baby blues hone in on the indents in his cheeks. It feels a lot like déjà vu.

“Alright then,” Louis shakes his head, “I supposed I’ll brave this on my own.” He looks around the shop, walking over to the ‘pop/rock’ on the opposite side of the row Harry had been standing behind and starts scanning the little rows.

Harry watches him carefully, “You looking for something in particular? I do work here, in case you forgot,” his voice sounds cold, but when Louis looks up, Harry is still smiling at him.

“You sure you wanna help me, mate? The other boys are the only ones who have enough patience to deal with me,” Louis smiles, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Harry wants to laugh, wants to scream right in Louis face, but he doesn’t, instead he soaks in the way the sunlight coming from the windows behind the shorter boy casts a halo-esque glow around his small frame. He bites his lip and sighs dramatically, “I think I can handle you.”

“Alright, mate. If you’re sure,” Louis drops the Miley Cyrus record Harry isn’t entirely certain the older boy knows he picked up and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m – uh. I’m looking for a CD.”

Harry raises both of his eyebrows at that, “Well,” he starts dryly, “You have come to the right place.” Louis gets that look that Harry knows is a mental ‘face palm’ and smiles encouragingly to show he wasn’t really making fun of him.

“Yeah,” Louis laughs uncomfortably, embarrassed, “I mean. I – there’s this girl, right? And I’ve not been seeing her long, but I want to get her something, right? Maybe a CD or maybe get a few and make her a mix tape? That’s not too sappy, is it?” He sounds so unsure of himself, so uncertain, but Harry barely focuses on that, too hung up on the implications of the sentence.

 _There’s this girl_ , Harry thinks,  _A girl._  And of course it’s a girl. Of course Louis is still trying to be straight. When Harry met Louis, the first time, there was an instant connection. Love at first sight, Harry decided, and he knew Louis felt the same, but it did take a little while to get him to come around. Louis had never been incredibly comfortable with his sexuality until he fell in love. He didn’t come out to his parents until a  _year_  after he and Harry had been official. Louis doesn’t remember that, though.

And with all of that, Harry knows this girl is not a really big deal. He knows Louis is gay, full stop. However, he also knows how incredibly stubborn the older boy is, and what a talented actor he is. He was with Lauren White for a year before he met Harry. He knows that, unless Louis has definitive proof of the contrary, he will continue his efforts to maintain heterosexuality, or at least the appearance of.

“Right,” Harry croaks, coughing into his closed fist to disguise just how rapidly his smile dropped. “I don’t think it’s too cheesy, but, then again, I don’t know the girl, so. Uh, is there anything in particular you had in mind?”

“No,” Louis has that ‘lost puppy’ look on that has the power to turn Harry’s knee caps into Jell-O molds.

“Alright then, follow me.” Harry turns on his heel and walks by row after row, snatching up CDs as he goes. When he’s done, he walks to stand behind the counter and lay the ones he had grabbed on it. Louis comes up in front of him and looks down at them.  _+_  by Ed Sheeran,  _Forever if Ever_ by Jon McLaughlin, and  _The Lovesick_  by Jason Reeves.

“Alright, this one,” Harry points to the orange cover of the Ed Sheeran album, “Is a bloody brilliant album. Acoustic/ singer-songwriter with a voice that’ll make you feel a lot of things,” Harry sends a small smile as he looks up at Louis, finding the other boy’s eyes glued to the CD. “This one,” he switches McLaughlin album, “has quite a few really good songs on it, in my opinion. It’s piano-based, not  _completely_  full of soppy love songs, but ‘I’ll Follow You’ is my personal favorite.” He pushes the other two albums out of the way and sets  _The Lovesick_  in the middle, “And this one. Well, I’ll admit I only know two or three songs from it, but I’ve heard it’s alright. It’s fun, upbeat, makes you wanna sing along in the car with the windows down and fall in love.” Harry’s voice almost cracks on the last word, but he manages to keep it in. He looks up again to find Louis staring at him intently. His shifts his eyes away quickly, though, and looks back down.

“So, these are my best shot, you think?” Louis finally lifts his eyes and smiles at him, and Harry tries very hard to ignore the smallest tint of red on his cheeks.

“Not at all,” Harry smiles back, “but it’s generically alright. Like I said, I don’t know much about the situation. If Zayn or Liam or even Niall know her, you could always wait for them to help you. This is what I suggest going off what you’ve told me.”

Louis tilts his head and wrinkles his nose in a way that he knows means Louis thinks Harry is incredibly endearing, but not willing to say so, “Alright then, Curly,” the nickname slips out of his mouth as naturally as it had the first-first time he’d called Harry that, and Harry’s breath hitches silently at it, “I’ll take ‘em.”

Harry hesitates a second before scooping up the CDs and placing them in a plastic bag, pushing them toward a confused Louis who looks at him from under scrunched eyebrows.

“And, uh, how much do I owe you then?”

“It’s on the house,” Harry raises one corner of his lips in a half smile and watches as Louis eyes fall to his left dimple again.

“No, no,” Louis snaps out of his trances with Harry’s cheek and shakes his head quickly, “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Seriously, Louis, it’s fine,” he insists, adding a, “I hope she likes them,” for good measure – even if it did sound strained.

Louis pauses just a moment more before taking the bag, smiling gratefully at this new curly-headed, dimple-studded, tall-statured man that’s wormed his way into many crevices of Louis life in unexpected ways. “Thanks, mate,” he says softly.

“Anytime. I’ll see you tonight?” It takes Louis a minute to work out what he means, but when he does catch on he laughs.

“Yeah! I’m lettin’ Damien have the night off. He’s taking his lady friend out to dinner. Or his mother. I don’t remember.” Louis smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Harry wants to puke.

He smiles anyway, “Well then, I’ll be seein’ you, Lou.”

Louis waves at as he walks backward toward the door, narrowly missing a display of carefully placed Rolling Stones vinyl, and waves at the boy behind the counter, “Looking forward to it, Curly.”

And with that, he’s gone. Harry sinks behind the counter with a scream he muffles into the collar of his jumper. When he pulls his head back out his top, he grabs for the plastic cup on the top shelf near his head and chugs back the rest of its’ contents with shaking hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com
> 
> :) x


	10. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, I think some of you are starting to really question where this story is going. Trust me, I have the ending squared away (I've actually written two endings, but that's not important right now). Now, I wanted to address something that an anon sent me earlier on Tumblr: -- Yikes, okay, so I can't link in AN, but it was a statement that hinted to a question of why I'm not specific with what Harry drinks besides the occasional beer/ whiskey brand. This is what I said in return:  
> Though the story revolves around Harry being and alcoholic and Louis his barkeep, let me submit to you the idea that this story is not about alcohol, loss, or grief at all, but rather it is a story about dependency, full stop. 
> 
> I think that distinction is important. x

Harry considered not going to Mike’s, not sure if he could handle being with Louis by himself, but wanting it all the same. In the end, his selfishness wins over his sensibility and he finds himself walking into the pub at half past five. The place is entirely empty with the exception of himself and Louis, who is currently sat on the countertop behind the bar, swinging his feet and sitting on his hands, just waiting for a customer so he’ll have something to do.

“Harry!” He lifts his arms above his head, jumping off the counter and walking the step forward to lean his forearms on the bar top in front of Harry’s usual spot.

Harry smiles at him, taking in his appearance. He’s styled his hair back to a carefully structured quiff and he’s traded his, Harry’s, too-big denim jacket for a long-sleeved dark blue button up, and Harry’s always loved when Louis wears blue. It makes his eyes even bluer, even more enchanting. He climbs onto his stool with a low, “Hello.”

Louis stares at him, unblinking until he realizes he’s missing something, “Oh, uh. Damien usually serves you, so I’m not really sure what you normally take.” His smile is small and shy, and Harry can’t help but knock his head to the side, lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Heineken for now,” he decides.

“You got it, mate,” Louis reaches under the counter, grabbing a cold, green bottle and placing it in front of Harry before grabbing the bottle opener out of his back pocket and popping the top off, “Mug?” he asks and Harry nods. He reaches over to the cooler and hits the top, opening it and grabbing a frozen mug to place next to the bottle.

“Thanks,” Harry says, pouring his drink into the mug.

Louis makes a noncommittal noise, watching the lines in Harry’s face as he keeps his eyes downcast. “So, how long have you known the Three Musketeers?” Louis smiles at him crookedly, hoping Harry will understand.

Of course Harry understand, “A few years,” he smiles back, “Four, about.”

Louis raises his eyebrows, “I’m surprised I’m just meeting you then. I grew up with ‘em,” Louis says, waving his left hand in a vague reference to him having said the same thing earlier.

Harry just lets his smile go tight, bringing his drink to his lips and chugging back half of it. Louis watches him with poorly disguised sadness. It’s not his place, Louis knows, but he’s always been _that_ person. He wants to know Harry, he decided a while back. He wants to know why such a beautiful man was so broken.

“So,” Louis starts, hopping back up on the counter behind him and reaching for a jar of cherries, “young Harold, tell me about yourself.”

“Uh. Not much to know, if I’m honest,” and this feels so much like déjà vu that Harry wants to run the other way, “I’m 19. I like music and booze.”

Louis looks up from his fight with the top of the cherry jar to lock his eyes with Harry’s, “There’s gotta be more than that – Aha!” Louis pumps his fist not holding the glass jar in triumph, finally getting the damn thing open. “I know those things. You work at a record shop and I see you here all the time. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Harry wants to tell Louis to put the jar down, because he doesn’t like cherries, has never like cherries, but doesn’t, because he isn’t supposed to know that. So, he just watches as Louis pops one in his mouth, pulling the stem off and chewing thoughtfully whilst waiting for Harry to reply, and just as Harry goes to humor him, Louis leans to his left, spitting the red fruit into the sink and coughing hoarsely. He spits one last time into the stainless steel sink, turning on the water to wash it down the drain before looking up at Harry with his cheeks and lips tinted pink. Harry raises an eyebrow at him.

“I – uh,” he coughs again, twisting his hands together, “always forget how much I hate those things. Sorry. So, come on, Curly, tell me something juicy,” he smiles mischievously, mirth twirling in his eyes.

Harry sighs, “I really don’t know what to tell you.” And he doesn’t. Louis once knew everything about him, knew him better than anyone. He doesn’t know how to react anymore. It should feel as natural as it had the first time around, but instead he’s clumsy and bashful and scared beyond belief, and, actually, it isn’t that different from the first time.

It’s kind of like reading the last page of a book first, Harry thinks. When Louis turns his head to shut off the faucet, Harry’s eyes stay trained on the side of his head, knowing that if he pushed the hair on his temple in the opposite way, he’d see a scar that drags in jagged lines to his ear. He knows Louis’ book; he’s written part of it. He knows the words it would take to keep him. He’s just not sure he’s ready to live in quiet nostalgia. To live in the present tense of past hope requires more reason and coherence than Harry has to spare at this point of his life, and he’s not so sure he’s ready for a new chapter in a book he thought to be surly closed.  

Louis sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes, “You’re a pain, Harold,” his smile contradicts him.

Harry hums quietly, lifting the rapidly warming mug to his lips. “Oh, so, how’d your – uh, lady – like the CDs then?”

Louis laughs, looking down at his feet, “To be honest, I didn’t even give them to her,” he smiles cheekily up at Harry, “I listened to them when I got back to the flat, right? And they’re brilliant, Harry. Honestly, so good. I’m gonna make a mix-tape I think, once I upload ‘em to my computer and all, but I’m definitely keeping those for myself.”

Harry laughs, “Glad I could help.”

Louis smiles, stilling his restless feet, “I swear, Harry, you make my tea right, and you get my taste in music right the first time. You might wanna warn Damien that I fully intend to steal you.”

“What can I say?” Harry smiles, feeling warm, feeling easy, “I’m prefect.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees softly, biting his lip after, and Harry knows he’s flirting with him subtly – well, subtly for Louis – and he wants to be upset. He wants to feel like he does after every recent Louis-centric event in his life. He wants to climb into his bathtub and dunk his head under until he’s gasping for air. He wants to drink himself into a vastly empty oblivion. He wants to trace Louis side of the bed with cold fingers and scream into his pillow until he’s red-faced and light-headed. He wants to stand on the rooftop of his flat with his toes on the edge, daring the wind to push him.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything. He feels numb – the very thing he’s craved for the past two years. He doesn’t feel sad or happy or frustrated or lost or _anything_ , and his brain understands that this should worry him, but it doesn’t. He sits back in his stool, resting against the hard wood, and looks at Louis with wide green eyes. “Another,” he says firmly, raising his glass.

“Another,” Louis agrees, grabbing him another bottle, completely unaware. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com :)


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, as always, feedback is very much appreciated. xx

The next morning finds Harry awake and sat on his kitchen floor, still half-drunk and with blood-shot eyes, clenched teeth, and two missed calls. There are three broken glass bottles littering the floor, the stench of alcohol saturating air and his pant leg. One tequila, one whiskey, one half-empty vodka bottle lie broken and scattered in toxic understanding – thrown from their spot with an animalistic growl that ripped with equally broken shards of sound from his throat.

He imagines he would feel confused and angry. This is all he’s wanted, what he’s spent the past two years of his life chasing. He’s hoped and dreamed of the bleak, suffocating aura of nothingness that would wrap in soft grey tendrils in his eyes and around his throat. Now, he’s not so sure he ever wanted it at all.

Suddenly, he’s all too aware of the sunlight pressing gently to his cheek from the crack in his broken blinds and the dampness around his right leg, and he can’t tolerate it another second. He stumbles to his feet too quickly, having to grab the tiled countertop, digging his fingernails into the grout almost painfully. He inhales deeply, lifting his head and letting it out, letting all of it go. He walks with a slight limp, his left leg having fallen asleep feeling distant and prickly. He makes it to his shower and steps in, in all his clothes. He turns the nozzle all the way around to the limit of the red sticker that adorns it and dares it to take him.

He closes his eyes, tilting his head to the spout, and only winces slightly when the scolding hot water hits his face and chest in powerful streams. The water soaks his plain white t-shirt and jeans and socks, making him feel even heavier than usual. His skin burns white hot, and he lets out a small whimper at first. He lets himself feel it, makes himself feel his skin turn patchy and pink in protest. He stands as long as he can bear, and then, suddenly, his world isn’t covered in soft grey and medium blue hues.

He reaches through the scolding hot water and slams the nozzle around to center, ‘off,’ and feels the steam radiate off his body. He breathes through his nose, welcoming all his pain – his swollen skin and heart – and stares at the black marble walls of the shower with determination. He puffs his chest out and raises his head before stepping back out of the shower, dripping from every thread that clothes him, and looks directly into the mirror in front of him.

For the first time in two years, he meets his own eyes, and he doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him. His eyes are molten mixed emerald and pale gold, framed by dark and drooping bags beneath them. Tension is pulling every one of his muscles tight, made even more evident by the way his, now translucent, t-shirt clings to him. His hair is frizzy and disheveled, and in desperate need of a trim. He looks older, more worn, but not wiser. He can almost see the air that surrounds him being drenched in all his misery, but his eyes are unrecognizable, and, as he looks closer, he makes out the faintest hint of soft grey at the edges.

He’s frozen, and then, like a gunshot in the still of the night, he’s swinging his closed fist forward, snapping against the glass that cracks of sharp ripples before shattering completely, falling abruptly to the sink and the floor around Harry’s feet, and he wants to feel satisfaction as he stares at the white wrecked wall in front of him, but he doesn't. He only feels pathetic.

\---

Harry is sat on his couch, staring at his blank TV in the same clothes he showered in, feeling chilled to his core, but unwilling to move. His hands are shaking, aching to wrap around just anything to calm him. He hasn’t eaten or slept in over 24 hours, can’t find the strength to stomach anything, his head beating to a rapid, insistent pain that starts at the back of his head and ends beneath his eyebrows. He’s tapping his foot to no particular rhythm, mentally willing the cars outside to _stop fucking honking, inconsiderate pricks._

He hasn’t cleaned up his kitchen, can still smell the drinks, and his skin crawls in two directions – to and from it. He won’t, though. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want the numbness. He doesn’t. He needs it, though. He needs the way it burns him, reminds him, promises a better tomorrow that may or may not come. He needs it and it’s so pathetic. He feels so fucking pathetic, because he is so in love. He’s so in love and not loved in return, and it’s so lonely, and so he has to romanticize alcohol to make himself carry on. So he sits, tapping his foot, staring at nothing, gritting his teeth and ignoring the niggling thought that echoes “withdrawal,” because he sunk low, yes, but he’s not physically dependent on it, he’s proving that now.

\---

It’s half past seven when Liam shows up at Harry’s, knocking on the door with one hand as he texts Zayn with the other. He stops shortly, though, when he finds the door pushing back under the force of his knock. He freezes before shoving his phone in his back pocket and pushing on the door a little more. It opens that bit more and Liam’s heart is beating far too quickly.

“Harry?” he calls out, finally pushing the door completely open with an outstretched hand, still standing behind the step. The strong stench of alcohol hits him with shocking force and he quickly covers his nose and mouth with the hand not holding the door back, scrunching his eyebrows together.

“Harry?” he calls out again, taking a tentative step inside. “Harry where are you?”  He looks to his right and sees Harry’s keys sat on the entry hall table, brown boots shoved beneath them. “Harry?” He looks to his right, seeing smashed bottles and pooled alcohol covering the floor. Panic rises in his chest, his voice becoming more and more strained. “Harry? Come on, mate. Where are you?” He goes to step to the hall that leads to Harry’s bedroom, but stops short when he sees a very Harry shaped mass on the floor of the living room. He steps closer with quivering knees before catching a glimpse of Harry’s closed eyes and barely moving chest in a mixed ray of moon and streetlight coming through the cracks in his curtains.

Liam flips the light switch next to him and sees him lying on the floor between his couch and coffee table, right arm curled beneath him, left raised high above him. His white shirt is rucked up beneath his armpits, outlining just how slowly his breaths are coming. Liam pauses for only a second before running to his side, pushing the coffee table out of the way and carefully avoiding the spot on the floor where Harry had been sick. “Harry!” it’s such a wrecked, inconsolable sounds, and Liam’s had nightmares about this very moment. He was always half-expecting it, but never prepared.

“God, Harry! Harry, look at me. Harry, Harry open your eyes. Come on, mate,” he pleads with the younger boy, grabbing his face, petting his hair, ignoring the way his own eyes fill with stinging worry. He rips his phone from his back pocket, dialing 999 with shaky hands.

“I need an ambulance,” he breathes quickly before the operator can finish her reception. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com :) x


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is appreciated. I will proofread this when I wake up. xx

Liam’s hunched over, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, sat in an endlessly grey-speckled lobby. His light blue button up shirt is spattered red from the blood off Harry’s hand, the one he’d flung at his mirror earlier in the day, where the shocking attempt at bandaging had slipped as Liam held it to his chest on the ambulance ride over. He’s been there for an hour by the time Zayn arrives, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around him. Worry is branded into every indent of their wrinkled foreheads. The florescent lights underline Liam’s darker features, and Zayn feels himself adapting the same expression. It’s another half-hour before Niall arrives, and Liam is thankful that he’s alone.

None of them say it, but the last time there were sat like this, sitting ducks in a pond of anxious terror, was after Louis’ accident. And even then, they knew he was alive - comatose, but okay. Right now, all they can do is sit there while Niall taps his feet, Zayn bites his fingernails, and Liam’s mind tackles every worst-case-scenario while they ride out at least another two hour wait for Anne to arrive.

Liam had made the nurse at the front desk call her. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t even imagine making that phone call. The last few times he’d spoken to Anne, she’d ask him, just before they parted, to watch after Harry, and Liam said he would, always would. So, by the time Anne does arrive, he’s swimming in his own guilt, unable to reach her eyes. When she wraps them all in warm hugs, him going last, he whispers “I’m so sorry,” into her ear, and she doesn’t ask why.

She checks in with the front desk and they tell her a doctor will be out to see her soon, and, true to their word, a man walks out not five minutes later. He’s tall with grey hair that’s receding at the edges. His thick-rimmed glasses sit perched on the bottom indent of his nose as he looks down at a clipboard. He looks up and to the four of them sat in their row, staring back at him, and this would happen. He’s so easily recognizable, and it shouldn’t surprise any of them as much as it does.

He walks over to them briskly and Anne stands up as he reaches his hand out. “Mrs. Cox, my name is Dr. Goodwin,” he spares a glance at the three boys beside her like he’s trying to place them.

“I know,” she says quietly, and, when he looks back at her, she elaborates, “You, um. You took care of my son’s boyfriend, at the time, a couple of years ago. Louis Tomlinson? He was in a car accident. Landed himself in a coma for a few months – woke up with some memory issues,” she’s vague, but he searches her eyes, honestly trying to recall the boy.

He’s quiet for a few beats, and Anne is just about ask him to just tell her how Harry is, for the love of God, before she sees his eyes flash and glaze over with a look of genuine sorrow and, strangely, understanding, as the lines in his forehead become even more prominent. He nods, “I thought your boy looked familiar,” he sighs.

“How is he?” Anne asks quickly.

He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head, “He’s got himself in a bit of a mess, I won’t lie.”

Anne sinks to her chair, staring up at him with wide, scared eyes, and the  three boys next to her hold on to each other for support.

“Alcohol withdrawal,” he reads off his clipboard before glancing at Liam, “and it’s a good thing you found him when you did. Too much longer and he might not have made it.”

You could hear a pin drop, the four of them not breathing until Zayn rushes out a soft, “He has made it, though, is what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” the doctor agrees, adding a definite, “roughly. Alcohol withdrawal is a very serious thing. Have any of you been seeing signs of dependency in him? Or maybe he’s become withdrawn from your group, his normal activities? Has he been lethargic and uninterested in a lot of things?” He’s scanning their faces as he asks the questions, not needing them to respond verbally. “Alright,” he sighs, “Harry’s body became dependent on the alcohol. It managed to work its way into his system, and, with the severity of it, I’m not sure why he hadn’t been drinking for so long. He definitely would have noticed the symptoms before they got to the level of when he was found: shaking hands, vomiting, blurry vision, lack of energy, et cetera.”

At this point, Liam has folded his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees and trying to make himself as small as possible. Zayn is rubbing his hand through the short hairs at the base of Liam’s neck in what’s supposed to be a soothing motion, but Liam’s not really sure if it’s more for himself or the other. Niall is stone-faced, but that’s how he reacts to most things – he shuts down. Anne has tears running down her cheeks, and, though she won’t say it right now, Liam knows she’s disappointed in her son.

“He’s sleeping right now,” the doctor continues, “We’re trying to pump enough vitamins in him to wash out the alcohol left and keep him stable. I will recommend him to see a therapist once we do release him. Without it, I fear he will fall back into the same patter, and it kill him. He’s a young boy, bright and kind, from what I do remember of his time here with Louis, and I would hate to see him back in here under any condition, but especially that.”

The silence that follows is the weirdest Liam thinks he’s ever encountered. There’s beeping of machines, squeaky wheels of carts and wheelchairs, people talking over each other in rushed, hushed sentences, and doors being hit against stoppers as people fling them open, but it’s still quiet enough for him to hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

Anne sniffs loudly, shaking her head before raising her eyes to meet the doctor’s. “I want to see him,” she says with determination.

“Absolutely,” he tells her, “I’m not sure I can let you all back, though.”

She looks to the boys next to her and places her right hand on Niall’s forearm, patting it softly, “They’re family,” she says, and Dr. Goodwin knows they aren’t, knows there are no blood-ties between any of them, but he only pauses minutely before telling them to follow him.

\---

Harry wakes up at eight in the morning to someone sticking a needle in the crook of his arm. “Ouch!” he yells, scrunching his eyebrows and whipping his head to right to stare daggers into the nurse. It’s only then that his brain kicks into gear, racing through observations that lead to questions and only half-conclusions.

“Hi, sweetie,” he’s ripped from his thoughts by the sound of his mother’s voice – a honey sweet sound that’s laced with lack-of-sleep and partial relief.

He turns his head to the left to see her sat slumped back in a chair next to him. Behind her, he makes out a tuff of blond hair peaking from beneath a leather jacket draped over a sleepy Irishman, and he wonders just how long they’ve been here.

“Hi,” he croaks. He wavers for a second before asking, “Why am I here?”

Anne swallows, inhaling deeply before answering with a firm, “Alcohol withdrawal.”

“Oh,” Harry whispers.

“Yeah.”

Harry sighs, bringing his hands up to rub over his tense face, and it’s only then that he feels the rough bandages the cover his right hand. He draws it back for examination, and it’s then that it all comes back to him. He drops the appendage with another heavy sigh, and, not for the first time, thinks  _‘So, this is my life now.’_

“Harry, why?” His mother’s voice is frail and scared, and she’s not asking why it started. He turns his head to stare at the ceiling tiles, can’t imagine explaining this while looking her in the eye.

“I don’t hate him,” is all he says, and he can imagine the way his mum’s face will wrinkle in confusion, because God, if anyone knows how much he loves Louis, it’s her. “I don’t want to forget him,” he says even quieter, and it’s then that her face evens out, starting to understand. “I- I don’t want to be numb to it. I never really wanted to be. I was tired of being constantly in a state between alive and dead, and I just wanted – I just wanted one o-or the other. I, “and he loses his battle with the lump in his throat as his eyes burn hot with the tears sliding down his temples. He chokes on a miserable sound, swallowing down the next and taking in a deep breath as he feels his mum’s hands circle his own. He looks over to see she has tears in her own eyes that shine with sadness and decently disguised disappointment, but mostly sympathy.

He doesn’t want her pity, but allows her to lift his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “Harry, you can’t just do that on your own. You can’t just try and come off something like that. It’s so, so dangerous. You could have died if Liam hadn’t found you when he did.” Harry feels something tug in his chest at the thought of Liam discovering him like that. It’s a cross between embarrassment and guilt, and he really doesn’t deserve the friends he has.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I love you,” she says, and he knows she’s thinking about all the time she spent wondering if the last time she’d told him that would be the last time she’d have the chance.

He doesn’t reassure her, doesn’t bring it up. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com :)


	13. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, but there's a chance I'll be double-updating tonight. Sorry. x

It’s an hour later that Harry’s able to convince his mum to get some sleep at his flat. She leaves with a pat to his shoulder and a kiss to the top of his head, and it's only after she’s closed the door that Harry can focus on the two sleeping figures he hadn’t seen behind the chair she’d taken. Zayn is sat on the floor in the corner with his back to the window bench seat, one leg splayed out flat and the other triangular with the ground. His head’s tilted slightly to the side, resting against the white wall beside him, and his mouth is slightly open with soft breaths. Liam’s curled up on his side, his head resting on Zayn’s thigh; his nose tucked into his boyfriend’s hip, his back is to Harry. Niall is still fast asleep, stretched out on the window bench seat and soaking in the sunshine like a cat. Zayn’s leather jacket is tucked beneath his chin and Harry knows that means he was the first to fall victim to the sandman.

It’s quiet now. His throat feels raw and empty and dry, but he doesn’t call a nurse for water. Instead, he glances around with half-lidded eyes. He hasn’t been in a hospital room in two years. He’s been in and out of the ER a few times for minor accidents (like when he and Niall decided to create a real-life game of Fruit Ninja and he ended up with a pretty impressive gash on his shoulder. He still isn’t completely sure how that happened), but he hasn’t been in a room, with all its insistent beeping machinery and icy, sterile air and lingering feelings of dread and stress and loss, since Louis’ accident.

When it comes down to it, this room isn’t much different than Louis’ was. He should know, he practically lived in it for four months. It’s still as boring and cold as he remembers.  

He breathes deeply, and he’s glad his friends are here. He smells the faintest hint of cigarette smoke and iced coffee and Liam’s fabric softener and his mother’s perfume, and if he were to close his eyes, he would be at home.

He’s almost smiling at the thought when there’s a soft knock on the door. He turns his head toward the sound, readying his list of complaints for the nurse that would follow. When the door opens, however, all he sees is  _blueblueblue_  and his breath hitches. “Louis,” he breathes.

“Hi,” he says quietly, looking from Harry to the lazy puppy pile to his left.

“What are you doing here?” Harry doesn’t mean it in an accusatory or mean fashion, but his voice doesn’t sound exactly comforting either.

Louis falters momentarily, only halfway in the room, still holding the door open. He looks at Harry, but breaks contact quickly in favor of looking at his beat up Chucks as the scuff against the tile. “I-,” he coughs awkwardly, stepping completely in the room and letting the door click behind him. “I got a text from Niall last night. Told me they were here and that he’d need a ride home before he went to the shop with Zayn.” He’s shoved his hands in his front pockets, shrugging lightly at his explanations, looking up at Harry from beneath his eyelashes, looking bashful.

Harry wants to hit him. And kiss him. But mostly he wants to fucking scream.

“Oh,” is all he says, and it’s more like a gust of wind that’s been knocked out his lungs by Louis’ presence. “Well,” he says louder, straining his voice and mentally begging it to just fucking cooperate, “Might want to wake them up then.”

There’s a tense silence and Harry looks up to find Louis looking at him – really looking at him in an alarmingly detailed way that makes Harry feel more naked than he has in a long time – and he stares back with matched interest. It’s so strange to think that they saw each other just two days prior. To Harry, it feels like years, and, in a way, it has been. He’s standing just across the room, but he feels light-years away. There’s so much space between them and it feels like that space is filled with mountains and valleys and oceans and stars and planets and galaxies that keep them apart. And Louis looks contemplative, like he feels it, too, but doesn’t know why. Harry knows why. He can see all the things that live in those spaces that Louis can’t. From where Louis stands, there’s just tile and air separating them, but to Harry, there’s memories projected on every surface around him, haunting and hanging around like the ghost of a bad dream he can’t shake or step away from.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” is what Louis says next, and he’s not speaking to Harry in the voice he hates and he isn’t smiling at him. His eyebrows are in a line, a small crease beneath him, and, if anything, his lips are slightly turned down at the corners, but he means it.

“Thanks.”

Louis nods once, breaking his gaze and shifting his eyes back to the three boys so blissfully unaware of the uneasy air they’re breathing in. He pulls his hands from his pockets, walking over to Niall and squatting down. He pushes some blond hair off his forehead and rubs circles in his wrist, softly pulling him from sleep, and something tugs in Harry’s chest. Niall was an absolute pain to wake up in the morning – could give Zayn a run for his money – and Harry remembers always sending Louis to wake him up when he would stay at their flat for this exact reason. Louis is so bright and full of love and happiness and sunshine, and he carries a sort of warmth beneath his skin that’s inherently gentle. Harry’s always loved that about him.

Niall makes a soft noise of protest, wiggling sleepily before blinking his eyes open slowly, “Lou?”

“Hello, mate. You and Zayn have to be at work soon, yeah? Let’s get you in a shower.” Harry can’t see his face, but he knows Louis’ is scrunching his nose up with that last sentence and Niall laughs groggily and nodding his head. When he sits up, he accidentally hits Liam’s hip with his foot, and Liam flops over onto his back with a quiet hum of annoyance that, in turn, wakes Zayn up.

Louis herds them out of the room after they’ve taken turns kissing Harry’s curls and promising to visit him that night. Louis is hallway out of the door, taking up the end of the line, when Harry calls his name. He pauses instantly, turning his head to look back at him.

“Thank you,” is all Harry says.

Louis looks confused, but says manages to breathe out “You’re welcome,” anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com


	14. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, feedback is very much appreciated! :) xx  
> I will proofread in the morning.

It’s the third day of his stay at the hospital, and Harry is five seconds away from ripping the wires from his arms and walking out. He’s gotten back into a routine. He goes to bed when they ask, wakes up to Liam running his fingers through his curls or Zayn patting his ankle, stares at walls, eats shitty food, walks down to the community room by request of his nurse and pointedly avoids socialization, walks back to his room, stares at walls, eats shitty food, and goes to bed when they ask. His mother left the day before, and, to their credit, the boys have been visiting every day. Gemma called him his first night in to tell him what an idiot he’s become and he wasn’t even bothered, he just smiled at her voice and the familiarity of it. It’s not enough, though.

He’s sober, not a drop of alcohol in his system, for the first time in a long time, and everything is different. He remembers why he started drinking in the first place, but he doesn’t want to. He’s still sad. He still feels the tension in his spine and the heavy weight in his chest, but he decided, somewhere around the middle of day two, to not let his life begin and end with Louis Tomlinson.

The sun is casting shadows from behind the building, the sky outside his window on fire with swirls of orange and pink hues; Harry’s sat Indian-style on his bed, his blanket pulled over his lap, staring at the wall in front of him. He taps his hands to no particular rhythm, just waiting for a familiar face to take him home.

The familiar face that shows is not the one he expects, however. It’s exactly ten past five when he catches a glimpse of tan and blue and caramel out of the corner of his eye. He turns quickly as the figure steps into his room. “Louis,” he breathes. He’s transported back to two days prior and, again, it feels like so much longer.

“Hi,” he smiles softly, letting the door click behind him. Harry swallows hard, and Louis crosses his arms over his chest, keeping his distance. Harry’s not sure which part upsets him more. “I, um,” he starts, not meeting Harry’s eyes, unlocking his arms to pull his maroon beanie tighter around his ears, “Liam and Zayn have – I mean, it’s their anniversary, and, um, Niall’s got class – at, yeah, and they asked if I would pick you up? I, um, I said I would. I hope- I mean, is that okay?” He’s tentative and so un-Louis-like that Harry feels like throwing up.

God, he wants more than anything to throw himself out his window or just tell Louis he’ll wait for another ride, but he can’t. He knows Louis will give him that dejected look that he never took well in the first place but this is too much too quickly and fuck, fuck, fuck.

“That’s fine,” he whispers, and Louis seems to visibly relax at his words.

He lifts a bag off his shoulder and tosses it on the foot of Harry’s bed. “Clothes,” he explains, tucking his hands into his front pockets.

Harry nods but doesn’t move to get up. Instead he watches Louis look around the room, studying the walls and floors, and Harry thinks he’s so fucking beautiful. The shadow of sunset casts warmth over the left side of his face, dipping in to highlight his cheekbones, reflecting off the curve of his long eyelashes, and sinking into the vastly open blue seas beneath them, lighting their gold specs on fire.

And he tries not to ruin it, tries so hard not to think about the last time he’d been completely sober around Louis and how it had been in this same building. He tries so hard to just soak up Louis sunshine, feed on his presence like a goddamn flower, like he’d wilt without it. And maybe that’s the most accurate representation of their relationship he’s ever thought.

It isn’t until Louis circles back around to meet his emerald stare and lifts his hand to his chin with a, “What? Is there somethin’ on me face?” that Harry snaps out of it.

“No,” he shakes his head, “No, you’re fine,” he assures. “Perfect, even.” He mutters it, but he knows Louis hears it by the way he ducks his head down, biting on his lip. Fuck.

Harry stands up and grabs the bag, pulling his clothes out of it. He smiles as he smells the faintest hint of Liam’s cologne. If that hadn’t given away who packed for him, the choice of clothes would. Harry’s favorite grey wool jumper, dark wash skinny jeans, black Topman boxers, and white Chuck Taylors. Harry pauses, considers finding his way to the bathroom to change, but figures it to be too much work ( and if the blush stays on Louis’ cheeks a bit longer, that’s just a bonus) and drops his hospital gown to the floor with one pull. His back is to Louis when he does this, and Harry doesn’t miss the small choking noise he makes. _‘Whatever,’_ Harry thinks, _‘He’s seen me naked before.’_

He’s just finished dressing, pulling his jumper over his head when there’s a knock on the door. He turns around to find Louis a wonderful shade of red and Dr. Goodwin stepping through the door.

“Hello, Harry,” he smiles before turning to look at the other boy in the room. “Louis! My boy, how have you been?” He’s all kind eyes and genuine smiles and that’s the thing Harry remembers most about him.

“Wow,” Louis says, eyes wide, “Hi! I’ve been well,” he smiles back.

“Good, good,” the doctor looks to Harry with happy eyes, but they fall when they notice his expression. His arms are crossed over his chest and he sends the older man a sad smile, hoping to covey without words that this isn’t some normal occurrence, that Louis still doesn’t remember him. “I, um, paperwork. I have paperwork for you to fill out, Harry, before you go. Louis, if you wouldn’t mind,” he sends the boy a nod and Louis makes a small sound of understanding, stepping out of the room. “So, want to explain that to me?” Dr. Goodwin raises an eyebrow at him as soon as the door clicks shut.

“He’s moved back to London. Lives with Niall – the blond one – and we ran into each other on accident,” he explains with a vague wave of his hand. The older man sends him a disbelieving look, but Harry persists, “I swear it. As if I’d twist that rusted knife purposely,” he laughs darkly.

There’s a sad sigh from across the room, “We did everything we could for him.”

“I know. He’s alive, and that’s what matters. Thank you,” Harry means it. He vaguely recalls telling the boys the opposite, but he was drunk and desperate and so full of hurt that it almost made sense. He never meant it, though. Not a word.

There’s a tense silence that follows before, “Is that what this is all about then?”

Harry shakes his head, “Kind of.”

“Is that healthy?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Harry, there’s a large chance he’ll never remember what you shared. It’s entirely probable, most likely. You do know this, right?”

“Yes,” he grits out, and God it’s even worse to hear out loud.

“I just have to make sure. I don’t know what your intentions with him are-“

Harry chuckles, cutting him off mid-sentence, “I don’t have any, really. Honestly, he’s – Louis, and I’m Harry.”

“And?”

“And that’s not good enough.”

“Wasn’t it last time?”

“No. I was lucky. He was the answer to every shooting star and birthday candle I’ve seen. It was a chance meeting, stars-aligned in my favor. He was never meant to be mine forever. I’ve been coming to accept that. Some things just shouldn’t be contained and he’s far too bright to be bottled up by the likes of me.”

“Don’t say that, Harry. Maybe you’re reading it all wrong. I wasn’t discouraging you from perusing him; I’m just urging you to do so gently. I’d like to think you’re more like star-crossed lovers than a simple happenstance. He loved you. You loved him.”

“I love him. It isn’t enough.”

“Why?”

“Because – because I’m a dying star, and he’s a galaxy all his own.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“I wish I was.”

The doctor signs, defeated. “Alright, Harry. I’m sure you don’t want to stay any longer than you have to. Just sign on the bottom of these two pages and you’re good to go.” He hands over clipboard and pen. When Harry hands it back after having signed, he crosses his arms over his chest again, looking just as young as the first time Dr. Goodwin had seen him. “You’re a bright lad, Harry, and you’re so, so young. Look after yourself, and look after Louis. I say this with respect and all kind sincerity – I never want to see you again. Not here.”

Harry bites the inside of his lip, nodding. “Thank you.”

Dr. Goodwin nods, “I’ll send your boy back in now.”

Harry laughs with a genuine smile tugging the corners of his lips back, “Hardly.”

\---

Harry’s riding shotgun of Louis’ black RAV 4, smiling fondly at the broken glovebox, and he wonders if he looks like a massive freak to the older boy. Probably. But then he wonders if Louis even knows why it’s broken, how he rode Harry mercilessly with the seat pulled back, how Harry kicked his foot put to try and get more leverage on his upward thrusts but ended up busting the handle off the small compartment instead, how neither of them noticed until the next day.

It’s in that moment that he’s glad Louis car wasn’t totaled in his accident. It had massive damage to the front, but it was a few hundred pounds away from being a total write off, and the cost of repairs were cheaper than buying him a new car. Harry would know, he helped pay for those repairs.

And so they’re sat there, half-strangers in a familiar setting, and they’re quiet, so quiet that Harry can hear Louis’ hands tightening and loosening on the leather steering wheel. Harry knows he’s desperately trying to think of conversations, wanting to break the silence with anything. He knows all of this but won’t help the other. Instead, he just looks at the world passing by them.

Louis coughs, “So,” he drags it out in an awkward way that makes his tone drop toward the end, “Happy to be out of there?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, but doesn’t offer much more.

“Right,” Louis sighs. Harry goes to look back out the window and notices a very familiar left turn pass him by.

“Uh, Louis,” he starts, touching the window with his index finger, “I live that way.”

“What?” Louis says, looking over at Harry for a moment. “Oh, no. I know. Well, I don’t. I mean, um. Niall told me that the doctor had told your mum that you needed to be looked after for a couple of days, right? So, he said that you’ll be staying at ours, I guess. I, uh, I thought they had told you.”

Harry grits his teeth, “No. They conveniently left that part out. Fuck, Louis. I’m not a child. I can look after myself.”

Harry feels every part of Louis tense, his breath coming out short, “I, um. I know that, Harry. I don’t. It wasn’t. I, God, it wasn’t my call, okay? I’m sorry.”

Harry snorts, crossing his arms, and he knows, _knows_ he’s being unfair, but _this_ whole situation is unfair, “Why aren’t I staying at Zayn and Liam’s then?”

He tries not to notice the way Louis’ face falls just the slightest bit at that before the older lad shifts in his seat as they stop at a light, “Because Liam’s sister is in town for the next few days and is using their spare room.” It’s mumbled and monotone and Harry knows he should feel bad, but he’ll find time for that later.

He leans back further in his seat and tucks his hand further into his side, wrapping himself away from his reality and turns to face the window.

A few minutes pass before Louis breaks the silence with, “I am sorry,” and it’s so small and dejected and defeated that Harry has to dig his nails into his ribcage because _he_ did that. He’s made Louis feel that way.

Harry sighs, lifting his hands to rub his face raw, trying to knead out some of the tension. “No, I’m sorry. I’m such a dick.” There’s silence for a moment, and Harry thinks that might be the end of that before he hears Louis’ voice become a little louder.

“Yeah. You kind of are.” And when he looks over, the corners of Louis’ mouth are turned up, and Harry hasn’t seen the glint of mischief in far too long. It’s so achingly familiar that Harry can’t help but smile back at him.

“Cheeky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com :)


	15. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. You're all wonderful. :) As always, feedback is most appreciated. xx

Harry walks behind Louis into his flat, and, though he’d rather be anywhere else, he finds himself smiling. The living room smells like stale crisps and Niall’s hairspray, and maybe that should be an unpleasant combination, but it’s so familiar that he clings to it regardless.

Harry walks straight to the couch and collapses backwards on it, the cushions releasing a hiss of air in response. Louis stands awkwardly on the opposite side of the coffee table, wringing his hands before stuffing them in his pockets.

“So,” he starts, “Liam’s going to pick up some more of your things in the morning and drop them off. He’s left a set of pajamas for you in the room,” he waves his hand to gesture vaguely down the hallway that leads to Niall’s room and his guest room, now Louis’ room.

Harry turns his head to look at him, folding his hands over his stomach, “Alright. I’ll just go get them quickly and come back out. I could use a nap,” his smile is soft and easy, but it’s met with silence. Louis opens and closes his mouth a few times, looking like he doesn’t know how to say what he wants. “What?” Harry prompts, eyebrows creasing.

“I, um,” he coughs into his closed fist before shoving them in his back pockets and rocking back on his heels, a nervous habit of his, “You can, uh, stay in the extra room. If you’d like.”

There’s no way in Hell. “No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine on the couch. I’ve crashed on this couch more times than I’d like to admit,” he forces out a chuckle, hoping Louis will drop it.

“No, really,” he persists, eyebrows shooting up, hands slipping out of his pockets. “I haven’t really even finished moving in, so it’s not too different. I insist. You’ve just got out the hospital, mate. You need some good rest,” his tone is gentle but firm, and Harry knows he won’t win this. If Louis has ever been anything, it’s a mother hen.

“Louis, that’s your room. I can’t intrude,” he tries anyway.

“Nonsense,” he smiles. “I don’t mind. I’m quite fond of that couch myself.”

“Louis,” he tries again.

“Harold. Come on, mate. It’s really not a problem. Just a few days, yeah? The boys will be at your throat if you don’t recuperate properly.”

Harry stares at him for a hard moment and Louis smiles at him. It’s not a large smile, just the smallest upturn at the corners of his lips. It’s enough to make the skin beside his eyes crinkle just so, and he’s tilting his head to the right a little. God damn it.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Good lad!” Louis claps his hands. “Come on then – up, up.”

Harry hauls himself up and follows him down the hall, walking into the first doorway to the left. Louis wasn’t lying, he hasn’t moved in much. There are boxes splayed everywhere. The closet door is open and Harry can see most of his clothes have been unpacked. Naturally – priorities. The bedframe is the same one Niall’s had forever – a simple sleigh-style foot and headboard in black with white bedding. The walls are a soft beige color with the right wall baring exposed brick. It’s warm and smells so much like the older boy. Harry is torn between wanting to roll around in it and wanting to hold his breath until he leaves again.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” and Harry can hear the smile in his voice. His back is to Harry whilst he digs through a couple of boxes before pulling out a plastic bag. He turns around and hands it to Harry with a smile. “There you are, clean jammies. I’ll leave you to it.”

Before he leave, Harry turns on his heel, staring at the back of his neck, “Thank you,” he mutters.

Louis freezes, his hand on the doorknob, “Anytime, mate,” he throws over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

Harry watches the door click shut before falling dramatically backwards and landing on the bed, bouncing a bit as he lands. Suddenly, he’s drowning in Louis’ scent. It’s crawling beneath his skin like poison, like venom, like a death wish. It’s filling his nose and his lungs and his entire being. It’s not the new cologne he wears or whatever that body wash he’s got is. It’s a smell that’s so purely  _Louis_ , and Harry’s never wanted to scream more in his life.

So, he does just that. He rolls over, burying his face deeper into the agonizing aroma and screams into the blankets. He yells and yells and yells until his voice is raw, and he half-expects Louis to come running in all panicked, asking what’s wrong. But he doesn’t, and Harry stays face down in the mattress until he fears suffocation.

So, this is sobriety.

\---

When Louis stumbles back into his room, it’s gone just past two in the morning, and Harry’s lying awake on top of the comforter. He’s been staring at the ceiling for the past three hours, willing himself not to close his eyes again. He’d made that mistake just after ten and the dreams that followed were full of  _blueblueblue_  eyes and rolling white hills, cheeks bitten rosy by the cold and small hands encompassing his entire being. He awoke with a start not long after, and he wonders if he looked as sick as he felt.

“Sorry, mate,” he whispers, dropping to his knees in front of a chest of drawers to the left of the bed – the side Harry had taken.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, his tone even lower than usual.

Louis looks over his shoulder, “Can’t sleep?”

“Something like that.” Harry can smell the booze on him. He’s been at work, of course he smells like alcohol. He clenches his fists at his sides. “Good night?” he forces out the question like it’d burn his tongue if it sat there much longer.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively, turning back to rummaging through the drawer. “Niall stopped by briefly with some bird he’d pulled. Won’t be seeing him tonight, I’m sure,” he chuckles light-heartedly.

Harry doesn’t react, doesn’t respond. He knows Louis’ had a few drinks himself. He recognizes it, remembers from all the nights he’s held him upright. His voice is rough with just the tiniest lift in pitch, and Harry can see the subtle sway in his shoulders.

“Damien alright?”

Louis freezes, his whole body tense, and Harry’s just about to inquire as to why when he responds, “Yeah. Yeah, Dami’s great. Good lad, he is,” and he says it like he’s prompting Harry to agree or continue or  _something,_ so he obliges.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a sigh, “good lad.”

Louis suddenly slams the drawer shut with more force than necessary, probably just doesn’t realise it, “Well,” he starts, turning to face harry with a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I hope you can get some sleep. Good night.”

With that, he’s carrying a pair of sweatpants with him out the door, closing it lightly behind him. Light floods in from the crack beneath the door from the bathroom across the hall, and Harry doesn’t miss the sound of it being slammed shut. ‘ _How strange,’_ he thought.

\---

Harry does manage to get another two hours of restless sleep before he’s waking up to the sound of the door creaking open. He lazily opens heavy eyelids to stare at the blurry red numbers on Louis’ alarm clock. It’s eight-fifteen, and he sighs deeply, thinking, ‘what _a horrendous time of day,’_  before turning onto his back to investigate the reason for awakening.

Niall’s smiling at him, still in what Harry assumes to be his clothes from the night before from their rumbled and crinkled state. Harry smirks at him, “You sly dog.”

Niall laughs heartily, and it rings through Harry’s ears like a bird song, “I confess.”

“All whilst your dearest friend was wasting away, fresh from the hospital,” he throws a hand over his forehead for dramatics.

“Oi, and whose fault was that in the first place, eh?” His tone is joking but firm. Harry doesn’t want to have this conversation.

He drops his hand and uses it to help push himself to a sitting position. “Niall,” he starts, but he’s cut off quickly.

“No, Harry, listen,” the blond walks forward, perching himself on the corner of the bed by Harry’s feet, “I love you. I don’t know how many times me or Liam or Zayn have to tell you before it gets through those fucking curls. We’re family, and we wouldn’t cope without you,” Harry goes to cut him off, but Niall raises his voice just a bit louder, frowning, “And don’t say you even fucking say that you aren’t going anywhere, Harry. That’s something we actually had to think about. We had to fucking wonder whether or not we’d still have you when this was all said and done. You know how that feels. We’ve already had to do that once before, and that was one time too many. You can’t – just – you can’t do that, Harry. You can’t. You can’t put us through that. Not again,” his face crumples as he loses the battle with his stinging eyes, tears spilling from their corners.

Harry sits up, using his feet to drag himself closer to the blond before scooping him in his arms, wrapping around him like a security blanket, one arm around his back and one hand running through the hair on the back of his head as he rests his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. The cries quake out of him, making his entire body shudder. Harry just grips him tighter, whispering “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” behind his ear like a mantra.

\---

It’s two more hours until Louis appears. His hair is sticking up in every direction, his eyes are still droopy, and the left side of his face looks pink from where he probably kept rubbing it against his pillow. He has a tendency to do that. “Hi,” he says as he walks in and to his closet.

“Hi,” Harry says. He’s sat on the bed; feet tucked under him and book in hand.

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” he lies easily, wonders when lying to Louis became so easy.

“Good, good.” His voice is rough and low, and Harry’s just so fond of it that he has to hide behind his book for fear of it spilling out to every facial muscle he can’t control. Louis pulls out a pair of light blue jumper and throws it on the end of the bed, turning to face Harry. “What you doin’ today then?”

“Nothing. You?”

“Not a damn thing,” Louis laughs, pulling his long-sleeved maroon t-shirt over his head. Harry swallows hard. Louis has always been immaculate. He’s the perfect mix of sharp cheekbones and round biceps and firm muscles. He’s always been a bit insecure about his appearance, but Harry thinks, has always thought, his body to be the most erotic thing he’s seen.

What makes him look away, though, isn’t shamefully checking him out, or the fact that maybe Louis doesn’t  _want_ Harry staring at his half-naked body – though unlikely given how he’d stripped off – it’s an all-too-familiar mix of bronze and black that rests on Louis’ forearm. He’s only seen Louis in jumpers and coats until now, and it’s almost easy to forget that something so permanent lives in his skin.

He catches one glimpse of the compass tattoo and turns his head away, brings his right hand to rub at his left shoulder, where a similarly designed traditional British ship is etched, almost as if to soothe it.

“Maybe we can do something,” Harry can hear the edge of hopefulness in his voice, and, God, Harry just wants to tell him no, wants to tell him he can’t, wants to tell him he’s not sure if he ever will be able to.

“Sure,” he says anyway.

\---

And so they do. They spend all day on the couch, scooting closer and closer together as time goes on until their knees are pressed together as they hold their stomachs, laughing to the point of tears, the movie on the screen long forgotten.

“You did not!” Louis exclaims, wiping stray tears from the corners of his eyes, falling to his back and looking across to Harry, his head propped up by the arm of the couch.

“I swear it! She would not leave me alone,” Harry’s smiling at him, dimples and all.

“That’s all you could come up with? ‘I’m secretly a woman’?!”

“It got her to leave me alone, didn’t it?” They’re laughing again, and it feels so warm and familiar and easy.

“Could’ve just taken one for the team,” Louis offers.

“I don’t swing that way, sweetums,” Harry pinches his cheek for added effect and laughs as Louis blushes.

“Sorry. I nearly forgot about that.”

Harry knows he's lying and decides to not let that bring this moment down, “No worries.”

The jovial atmosphere settles comfortable silence encompassing them like a hug. Louis’ smile doesn’t fade until he turns his head to look down at the loose string he’s been playing with absentmindedly for the past few minutes. Harry watches the way his eyebrows move, knows he’s trying to decide whether or not he should say what’s on his mind. When he looks back up into emerald pools, Harry sends him a soft smile, with his eyes more than his mouth and that seems to be enough to push him.

“I,” he starts, curling his lips inward when he pauses before letting out a long breath, “I’ve had - uh. I’ve had dreams. About you.”

Harry feels his heart in his throat, feels how quickly it’s beating, how his brain is demanding he breathe, but the signal won’t reaching his lungs. It must show all over his face, because Louis is quickly abandoning the loose string and lifting himself to sit Indian style instead.

“Not, God, not like that. I just mean. I have these dreams, right? And they aren’t anything crazy or special, but you’re there, and so maybe they are. I just,” he runs his hands over his reddening face, “God,” he mumbles, “I’m sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, Louis,” he sits up straighter, turning his body to face the older boy completely, “it’s fine, I swear. I was just, I, um, surprised. I guess. What – happens in your dreams?”

Louis hesitates, staring into his eyes for just a beat too long before answering, “Nothing, really. That’s why I found it so strange, you know? It’s only recently. I’ll just be – I don’t know, say, at the library, and you’ll be sat with me, or I’ll be shopping and you’ll be nagging me about taking too long, or we’ll be with the boys, watchin’ footie and havin’ a laugh. Things like that.”

Harry digs his nails into his palms violently. “Oh,” he says.  _Oh._

Louis smiles back it him fondly, “You’re a right charmer, Harry Styles,” and his voice is either too loud or too soft, Harry can’t decide. “You’ve worked yourself into my dreams already.”

Harry swallows, biting down every truth hidden beneath his skin, tucked away beneath his bones.  _‘It isn’t what it seems,’_ he reminds himself. “More like a nightmare if you ask me,” his voice croaks, but his tone is light, and Louis scrunches his nose with a smile.

“Not in the slightest, Curly.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com for more fic-ness.


	16. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, as always, feedback is very much appreciated. I’m well into writing chapter fifteen - part of it was meant to go in this chapter, but then a bunch of people got fussy and I felt bad, so I cut it short. I might double update tonight. Let’s see how far I get. :) xx

The next three days blur together. Harry wakes up, makes tea, joins a not-quite-awake-yet Louis on the couch, pulls a face at his morning breath, and they watch a movie together in sleepy silence that isn’t the least bit uncomfortable. If Harry closes his eyes, it’s the day and every day before Louis’ accident. Back then they’d wake up slowly, Louis tracing the lines of Harry’s back with his fingers, leaning down to slowly kiss him into consciousness. Harry would make breakfast and Louis would make tea, and sometimes the only sound would be Harry’s deep hums to whatever song was stuck in his head when he woke up, and sometimes they’d turn the radio on and sing into spatulas, sliding on socks, dancing together, singing together, being together. If breakfast wasn’t burnt by then, they’d take up opposite ends of the couch, plates on their laps, legs tangled together, Louis’ cold toes tucked under Harry’s knees while the morning news played out on their television – more background noise than anything. But there’s always a little voice in the back of Harry’s head reminding him what he doesn’t have, and so he doesn’t close his eyes.

It’s just past eleven in the morning, and Harry thinks he might be going stir-crazy. He hasn’t left Niall and Louis’ flat in four, nearly five days, and he’s barely had company besides Louis. Liam and Zayn have been so caught up in Liam’s sister visiting that they haven’t had a chance to stop by for longer than a few minutes at a time. He almost considers asking Louis to go somewhere with him, but the thought almost scares him, and maybe he’s not ready to leave the bubble they’ve created over the past few days yet. So, instead, Harry just turns his head lazily to the right, resting back on the sofa, admiring his profile.

“So, what will it be today?” Harry’s got the smallest of smiles and kind eyes, and when Louis turns to him and his own blue orbs light up immensely, all his facial muscles seeming to relax just that little bit more.

“No movies for me today, mate,” Louis lolls his head to mirror Harry, curling his knees onto the couch, tucking his bare feet beneath him. “Got errands to run and work tonight. Back to real life, I suppose,” he says it like he’s talking about a dream, a small laugh dancing off his tongue in graceful swirls that wrap around Harry’s ears in cotton-soft waves.

“Ah,” he says, and he tries to not sound disappointed. It doesn’t really work though, and Louis cocks his head just a little further into the couch, scrunching his nose quickly, making his glasses move off-center. Harry doesn’t hesitate to reach his hand out and push Louis’ glasses back up his nose, and maybe he should have. It’s something he always used to do without thinking. It’s not his place to anymore, though. He forgets he might need permission to touch Louis, that their budding friendship may not permit such affection acts.

He swallows down that thought and scans Louis’ face for any signs of discomfort, but Louis’ just staring back at him curiously. He’s thinking, really thinking about what he’s going to say next, and Harry doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. So he just drops his hands into his lap, pulling at a loose thread on the inseam of his jeans as he waits for Louis to begin.

“You know, Curly,” he starts, his voice smooth, soft, “you’re a proper mystery.”

“What?” Harry shakes his head lightly, smiling around the word.

“I’m serious! I swear to God you hated my guts when I first met you. Sometimes I feel like you still do, but – but then you’re so easy, you know? No, wait, not – I didn’t mean – I mean you’re familiar.” There’s the word Harry craves. He lives off that word and all its meaning. Familiar.

“I’m not following,” he says slowly.

Louis sighs, like Harry is _such_ a chore, “I don’t even know. I guess – what I mean is that I really enjoy your company. I’m glad you gave me a chance. I can see us being good friends.”

Harry nearly chokes on his tongue, “Right,” he coughs as a cover-up. “I, um, same.”

Louis’ face falls a bit at his reply, and Harry knows he’s biting the inside of his lip to feign his nonchalance. “Good, good,” he says after a minute, breaking Harry’s gaze and turning to the television.

“I,” Harry has no idea how to even begin addressing this – never thought he would ever have to, “God, Louis. I never hated you,” and it rushes out of him in one gust of breath, like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

Louis turns back to him slowly, “Yeah?” He asks, smiling crookedly.

“Yeah,” Harry assures lightly, lifting his hand to push a stray lock of caramel fringe around his glasses. “Yeah,” he says again, already having forgotten the question.

\---

Liam comes ‘round at half three with a tight hug, an apology, and a hot cup of coffee from the hipster-death coffee shop around the corner from his flat. Harry takes all three with a smile. They sprawl out on the couch, facing each other, feet tangled as Liam asks all about the finer details of the past few days. Harry’s told him nearly everything before he pauses, covers his hesitation by taking a sip of his coffee, but Liam knows him better.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Harry decides.

“Harry.” God dammit.

“Honestly, it’s – Louis.”

“Isn’t it always?” Liam smiles at him, but Harry sees the tension in it, could see it from miles away.

“Yeah. He, a few days ago, he told me something that’s just got me thinking is all,” Harry waves his hand dismissively. Liam doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t have to, before Harry groans. “Fine,” he sets his cup on the coffee table to his left, choosing to ignore Liam’s victorious smile. “He said he dreams – about me,” and just like that, any trace of that smile is gone. “He said it’s just simple things. We aren’t really interacting, just, like, I’m there with him.”

“Harry,” Liam says carefully, sitting up and crossing his legs Indian-style and placing his coffee on the table as well before continuing, “You can’t,” his breath hitches like he doesn’t know how to say what he needs to say without watching another crack form in Harry’s foundation, doesn’t want to be the cause of it. “You know that doesn’t – it might not mean anything,” his voice sounds like walking around broken glass feels like.

“I know,” Harry replies softly. Liam only stares at him. “Honestly, I do. They aren’t memories if he can’t remember recognizing it.”

Liam nods at that, glad he can spare that conversation. “You’re still in love with him.”

Harry snaps his head up at that, staring at Liam with wide emerald eyes and scrunched eyebrows, “Of course I’m bloody in love with him!”

“No,” Liam shakes his head and waves his hands quickly, “Harry I know that. You know I know that. I just mean – are you really willing to go through this with him; are you willing to fall in love again?”

Harry considers it, “God, this is so fucked up. You know he thought I hated him,” he deflects.

“Don’t blame him,” Liam says, “You were a bit of a twat to begin with, or so I heard.”

“Lovely.”

“You were also almost always drunk, and he was almost always why, so I kind of understand,” Liam smiles at him. “Not that I condone that,” he throws in firmly.

Harry’s just about to reply when the front door opens. Harry turns his attention to the hallway, Liam turning his head to look over his shoulder. Louis walks through seconds later, freezing in the middle of taking off his dark purple hoodie.

“Oh,” he falters for a moment, finally getting his hoodie off, throwing it in the general direction of their laundry room. “Hi, Liam, Harry.”

It’s when he turns to look back at them that Harry sees it – the slightest hint of red on the apple of his left cheek. Harry pulls his eyebrows together and he sees Louis mentally curling in on himself. “Come here,” he says firmly.

“I actually need a wee. So, hold on a sec, yeah?” Louis goes to leave, but Harry’s not having it.

“Louis, come here,” his voice is low and cold and Liam’s heard it before, only once or twice, but he knows not to intervene, no matter how badly he wants to tell Harry that he’s crossing a line.

Louis rocks on the balls of his feet before sighing and walking over to the younger lad, standing across the coffee table, hands in his pockets, eyes cast downward. Harry gets up, walks around to the older boy, and grabs his chin softly, tilting it up and toward him. Louis focuses on a curl on Harry’s forehead rather than his eyes. As he suspected, there’s a red hand-shaped mark on Louis’ cheek. Harry’s blood boils at the thought of anyone laying a hand on his boy.

“What happened,” he says it like a statement, like lying isn’t even an option.

Louis can barely breathe let alone think of a lie whilst so close to Harry, “Stella,” he whispers, casting his eyes to Liam who groans.

“That went well then,” Liam pushes himself to sit properly on the couch, his feet hitting the ground.

Harry casts his eyes from Louis to Liam and then back to Louis feeling so, so lost. Louis sighs, taking Harry’s hand that still has a hold of his chin in his own, pulling it away and taking a step back. “Remember about a week ago when I came into the shop? When Liam’s car broke down? I had asked you about a making a mixtape –“

“For a girl,” Harry concludes, putting the pieces together slowly.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes. “She texted me this morning and asked why I’d been ignoring her. We met up and I told her I’d rather be friends. She, uh, thought I was leading her on, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Liam says while looking at Harry.

“No worries, mate,” Louis says, also looking at Harry. “I think she was more interested in your boy than she was in me if I’m honest,” Louis smiles as he looks over at Liam.

“Yeah, I’m not too worried about that,” Liam winks and Louis laughs.

“I’ll get you some ice,” Harry says quietly.

“Harry, I’m fine, honestly. I barely feel it,” Louis assures.

Harry nods before sidestepping the smaller boy, turning down the hallway to his right and then the door to his left, closing it behind him and collapsing face-first on the bed. He isn’t mad. He doesn’t know what he is. He was never worried about this ‘Stella’ girl. He forgot about her actually. He supposes it’s just that she’s another reminder of the fact that he doesn’t have Louis – not in the way he wants.

He flips over onto his back just as the door opens slowly. He sits up and sees blue eyes staring back at him.

“Hi,” Louis says.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“You alright?” Louis says carefully, not stepping fully into the room.

“Peachy.”

Louis considers pushing it but decides not to, thinks, humorlessly, that Harry’s a bit of a time-bomb, a landmine, a lot of things that make him cautious. “Look,” he starts, “I know you go home tomorrow, but Niall and I are having a Halloween party Saturday. Come by? You don’t have to drink or anything,” he adds quickly, “The guys would probably prefer it, actually. Just - come by, yeah?”

Harry wants to tell him no, absolutely not, not in Hell. “Sure.” Fuck. 


	17. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated! Make sure to read the author note at the bottom. I will proofread this later - please forgive any mistakes.

The days leading up to the Halloween party are full of tan skin and flashes of blue and crooked smiles that absolutely demand Harry’s presence. It’s only on the day before the party – when they’re out at a nicer restaurant and Louis’ hair is quiffed and Harry’s asking their waiter for the ticket, ignoring Louis’ protests – that Harry realises what it all means.

He’s seen that look on Louis’ face, the way he fidgets with his shirt, pulling it away from himself until Harry tells him he looks good. He catches the small comments Louis throws subtly into conversation, things that would be overlooked by anyone else. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Louis ducks his head under Harry’s attention, the way his stare lingers longer when he thinks Harry can’t tell. Louis has a crush on him.

And Harry – Harry doesn’t know what to make of that.

\---

The next day, Harry arrives when the party is already in full swing. He weaves through crowds of sweaty bodies and spots Niall above the crowd, surely standing on his coffee table, grinding on a slim blonde girl with a pixie haircut and a skin-tight green dress, fairy wings strapped around her shoulders. He assumes this is the girl he’s been seeing lately but isn’t sure enough to say anything.

Zayn has Liam drunk enough for PDA, pushed into the corner to the side of giant speakers blasting out some Top 40 monstrosity. Harry’s not sure where one boy ends and the other begins, but he really, really doesn’t want to know where the hand Zayn doesn’t have on the wall above Liam’s head is.

People are packed in from wall to wall. The air is heavy and smells like weed and sex.  He stands halfway between the living room and kitchen awkwardly. He has half a mind to walk back out when he hears his name called over the thumping bass line that commands the movement of the bodies around him.

“Harry!” He turns around to see Louis stumble over to him, his hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Bacardi. “You made it!” He throws his arms around the taller lad’s neck, leaning most of his body weight on him and making them stumble back before Harry rights them.

“Jesus, Louis,” Harry feels the bottle press to the back of his neck and shivers. “How much have you had?”

“I’m just getting started, mate,” and it’s when Louis pulls away that Harry gets a good look at him – at his costume. His white shirt is torn, strips of tan skin asking to be touched. He’s got gauze wrapped around his head, fake blood splattered across him, and Harry is going to throw up. He’s going to pass the fuck out, because it’s so eerily similar to the way he looked half-dead in a hospital bed. There are differences, major differences, but it’s enough to make something curl sharply in his stomach. He visibly winces, but Louis is too drunk to make anything of it. “Where is your costume?” He sounds affronted, and Harry thinks the question is ironic in a way.

“Don’t have one, I suppose.”

“Oh, Harold. You don’t know how to live.”

Harry just smiles, doesn’t know what to say to that. He coughs uncomfortably, shifting his weight before pointing at Louis’ shirt, “What – uh. What are you supposed to be then?”

Louis looks down at himself, like he’s almost forgotten what he’s wearing, “Damien and I are supposed to be zombies, but I think we just look like axe murders.” His tone is light, and Harry nods, looking away from him.

“Damien’s here then?”

“Yeah. In the kitchen, last I saw,” Louis says as he brings the clear bottle to his lips.

Harry follows the movement, watches his eyes close before deciding he’d rather not. “Right. Well, I suppose I’ll go say hello. See you around, Louis.”

He goes to sidestep the shorter boy before he feels his bicep being gripped tightly, “Oh, no you don’t,” Louis says, pulling him back. “He’s drunk and he’s going to get you drunk and then the boys will be cross with me. Also, you owe me a dance,” he adds the last part with a cheeky but confident smile.

“Do I?” Harry asks in poorly disguised amusement.

Louis leans in so closely that Harry can feel his lips move against the shell of his ear, “Yeah, and I love this song.”

A shiver runs down his spine, the room temperature rising significantly. Louis grabs his hand, pulling him through moving bodies until they’re engulfed in the crowd. He stops when he finds a gap, turning around and pulling Harry close to him. He hands the bottle the nearest couple dancing, and they take it gratefully.

Harry’s tense all over, and Louis notices. He eyes him quickly before turning around, lining up the curves of their bodies, moving in time with the kick drum punching holes in Harry’s sensibility. He hasn’t been this close to Louis in years. The way Louis is dancing on him is practiced and sultry and Harry is so incredibly fucked.

He either wins or loses his internal battle, finally unlocking his joints an letting his hips move in time with Louis’, and Harry can feel his smile in the way he moves in an even filthier rhythm, right arm raising up high and wrapping around the back of Harry’s neck, locking him in place. Harry gives in and lets himself _touch_ Louis. He wraps one large hand around Louis hip bone, pulls his arse even further into the front of his jeans, the other hand resting hot on his abdomen over his shirt, feeling how his muscles tense and release. It’s so hot and _real._ It’s not some dream Harry will wake up from soon with tangible frustration. The thought makes him grip Louis’ shirt tighter, the other hand finding the shorter man’s belt loops, slipping a thumb through it. He leans his head down and attaches his lips to the point where his collarbone meets his shoulder, brushing soft kisses against the flesh. Louis throws his head back and to the side, quietly urging him to continue, and Harry could never refuse him. He latches himself to the column of Louis’ neck, sucking and biting and licking until Louis turns around sharply, pushing a thigh between Harry’s, not a breath of air between them. He looks up and Harry almost takes a step back to admire just how animalistic he is in that moment. His pupils are blown wide, blue being eaten up by his lust. Harry hasn’t had that look directed at him in far too long.

Louis’ hips switch rhythm flawlessly as the song changes, and Harry knows he should pull away. He _knows_ what’s happening, how this story ends, but he won’t because he _wants_ this. He wants so much.

Louis stares him down, his eyes searching before he leans in, pushing hot breath to the curls behind Harry’s ear, “Follow me.” And Harry does, allows his hand to be grabbed again and walks behind Louis until they reach a familiar door. Louis pushes it open and drags the other boy’s tall frame behind him, letting his hand go and turning to flick the lock on it.

And it’s like the click flips a switch in Harry who’s pinning Louis to the door before he’s even had a chance to turn around fully. He braces one forearm above Louis head, his other hand braced against the wood next to Louis’ hip. He breathes hotly against Louis’ face, crowding him, and Louis just tilts his head back, stares at him like ‘go on, I’m waiting.’

So Harry does. He uses his feet to push Louis’ out and apart, and it makes him slip even further down, but Harry makes up for it by bending his knees, slipping one between Louis’ thighs. Louis breath hitches quickly and Harry abandons every precaution he had. He leans down and catches Louis’ lips with his own, and, God, it’s like nothing and everything has changed. His tongue tastes like rum, but behind that he still tastes the same, still moves the same, still feels the same. He still lights a fire in Harry’s veins that scorches every inch of him, burns so fiercely that he can only want more.

He pushes impossibly closer to the older boy, and when a small noise, a whine, pushes from the back of his throat to get tangled in Harry’s mouth, he pulls away. His lips feel abused already, and Louis looks absolutely wrecked. He takes a moment to appreciate it before grabbing him by the hips and pulling him forward, pushing and pulling at him until he’s falling backward over the footboard of the bed, bouncing slightly with the force of it.

Louis leans up on his forearms, looking up at Harry like an invitation, like the sweetest sin he’s never known, and Harry almost growls at it. He feels feral, like he wants to devour every part of Louis, take back, claim everything he was denied for so long. He feels it all boil inside him, and it’s all so clear and real and, and, and – God, he’s far too sober for this.

He lifts a knee onto the bed, smoothly leaning himself over Louis’ small frame, making him lean back down. Harry stares at him for a minute, his eyes, his lips, before settling on his neck. He picks his favorite spot and brings his face down to settle in the crook of Louis’ neck, lips resting just under his ear. He bites down at the same time that he rolls his hips down, and Louis lets out a moan that’s so delicious, so airy and high-pitched in the way it only gets when he’s been drinking, and Harry almost wants to stop to thank him. He rolls his hips down harder, adjusting his knees and shifting up with more force.

“God,” Louis breathes lowly, “Harry,” Louis brings a hand up to tangle in Harry’s curls and Harry moans when he tugs lightly.

“Louis,” he says, and it’s such a broken sound. He’s so, so overwhelmed by so many things and it’s not even fair. He feels the outline of Louis’ cock through his jeans, brings a hand down to rub over it firmly, and Louis’ back arches, his chest pressing to Harry’s even more closely.

“Please, please,” Louis doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, but God does he want it.

“Fuck,” Harry says, and it feels like a confession somehow. He lifts up on his knees, pulling to have both between Louis legs, pushing them farther apart, and he moans at the sight in front of him. Louis’ face, neck, and chest are flushed red, his shirt is rucked up to his armpits, his legs splayed for him. He’s spread out for Harry, and that’s enough to bring him back.

Harry pulls at the buttons on Louis’ jeans, unzipping them and wrapping his hands around to Louis’ backside quickly. “Lift up,” he says, his voice lower than usual, and Louis obeys silently. He lifts his hips and Harry pulls his jeans down as Louis lifts his legs, and when they get to his ankles, Harry rips the shoes off his feet, tossing them over his shoulder. He finally peels Louis’ trousers off, tossing them to the side carelessly, and Louis brings his legs back down to bracket Harry.

Harry leans back in to kiss him deeply, licking into his mouth with fervor, and Louis whimpers into his mouth, pulling at his dark blue jumper. Harry obliges, leaning back and pulling the fabric over his head and Louis licks his lips. Harry takes a second to pull at Louis’ shirt, a question. Louis nods and lifts his arms above his head as the shirt is pulled off him.

As soon as the shirt’s gone, Harry’s back at his neck, rough and possessive. Louis thinks he’s going to explode. He’s going to burst into a million pieces with how much he’s feeling. He’s going to combust, or he’s going to melt. He’s going to turn into a giant puddle of sexual frustration because nothing has felt this good ever, can’t think of anything that could ever feel this good again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Louis groans, and Harry has to agree. He reaches a hand down to pull at Louis’ hardened length over his boxers, and Harry feels Louis lift his left leg, his knee bumping into Harry’s ribs, and a small wet patch near the head of his dick.

Harry lifts his lips to Louis’ ear, bites the lobe softly, drawing a strangled noise from the boy beneath him, before whispering, “That’s the plan, love,” breathily.

Louis pushes both hands through Harry’s curls, quickly bringing his left hand down to his shoulder, digging his nails in harshly until Harry’s words register in his mind, and then he tenses up. “Harry,” he says, pulling his hair with a little more force to get Harry to look at him. “I-God,” he’s cut off as Harry rolls his hips against him, the feeling crashing through him, “I haven’t – I mean. I’ve never – with a guy,” it stutters out of him and he sounds so distant, but Harry tenses, freezes so quickly that Louis whines at the lack of movement in him.

He’s staring back at Louis’ with a wholly vulnerable, questioning look, and Louis mirrors it. He lays there in his pants feeling more naked than he ever has with a boy he’s absolutely mad about, and he’s just admitted to never having had sex with another boy, and as that thought makes its way through his alcohol-induced delirium, he’s so embarrassed.

“Fuck,” he sighs, “Harry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – I,” he doesn’t know what to say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry croaks quickly, looking like it’s definitely not fine, and Louis feels so stupid. Harry watches Louis’ assumptions dance across his face, “That’s okay.”

“I want to, though, yeah? I just thought I should,” he’s looking at Harry with wide eyes, still holding onto him tightly, and the air is so tense as Harry cuts him off.

“Louis,” he sighs, running a thumb across his cheek, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Louis’ face drops, his cheeks becoming even redder out of a mixture of humiliation and frustration, but Harry’s quick to amend himself, “We can still have some fun, yeah? We just won’t go all the way, alright? Does that sound alright, Lou?” The nickname slips off his tongue smoothly, and Louis nods his head quickly, pulling Harry back down quickly, trying desperately to move on from that moment, reignite the room, set its tension on fire.

Harry’s still tense. He’s a mixture of so many emotions, so many things he can’t put a finger on. On one hand, Louis’ just confessed to not having been with any guys since getting out of the hospital. Harry’s still the only one to claim him. On the other hand, Louis doesn’t know that. Louis thinks he’s a virgin. Louis doesn’t remember their first or last time, or any time in between. He doesn’t remember the way he’d laid Harry out on their two month anniversary, kissing every inch of his skin sweetly, how he’d opened him with careful concentration, how he whispered about how in love he was with him, how far gone he was as he’d pushed inside that first time. He doesn’t remember the way they’d moved together so clumsily, so unsure, how after he wrapped Harry in his arms, kissing him slowly, deeply, in a way that said _‘thank you for trusting me’_ until they fell asleep, consumed with this new level of understanding, trust, adoration that comes with physical intimacy.

Suddenly, he wants a drink more than he wants anything about this moment.

He decides he’ll get Louis off quickly, knows that if he can just get Louis to come, he’ll be out for the count. It’s with that determination that he pulls Louis’ pants down, watches as his cock falls against his stomach, flushed and leaking. He runs his hands up Louis’ inner thighs, knowing how it makes him shiver before leaning down and kissing around his hipbones, leaving a mark on the left, working his way over to the center of him.

Louis rolls his hips, head thrown back and eyes closed, waiting for something – anything, and when Harry closes his lips over the head of his cock, he sucks in air like he’s been holding his breath, letting it back out with a pitiful whine. Harry takes him in slowly, wraps one hand around the base and meets his lips halfway with his fist before bobbing both at a tempt he knows drives Louis crazy. Louis moves his legs restlessly, squirming from the pleasure. It’s been so, so long since he’s had someone else touch him like this, and he knows he won’t last long. Not when Harry is so fucking good at this. Harry picks up the pace, bringing his lips down further and further until he has to move his hand, bringing Louis into his throat and holding him there, looking up as Louis brings his head forward to look into his eyes. He holds his gaze for a moment before swallowing thickly around his length and Louis drops his head back down at that, threading one hand through Harry’s curls – not pulling or pushing him, just holding on. Harry’s eyes are stinging, but when he hears Louis start panting, little incoherent syllables falling from his lips, he redoubles his effort, sucking on Louis’ cock like it’s the best thing in his life, rubbing his hands up Louis’ thighs like he wants to devour every part of him.

“Harry, fuck,” Louis moans, back arching in a smooth line. “Harry,” he says, more like a warning this time, and Harry can feel the way Louis’ toes curl against the back of his own thighs. “Harry, I’m gonna,” he pulls his hand in Harry’s hair, but Harry marches on. “Harry!” his final cry is milliseconds before Harry feels his release spurt into his mouth. Harry swallows around him, sucking him through it until he can see Louis’ stomach muscles clench again, his heaving breath hitching.

He crawls back up Louis body, kissing him sweetly and batting Louis’ hand away when he reaches for his jeans. “I’m alright. Go to sleep,” and Louis doesn’t fight him, his eyelids already heavy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, listen, I haven't written smut in almost six years. You're just gonna have to bear with me on this chapter. x
> 
> nodibs.tumblr.com


	18. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated. I know I haven't gotten back to some of you guys yet, but please know that I really appreciate every comment! I can't believe how many hits, comments, and kudos this has gotten. xx
> 
> I will have to proofread this later. Please forgive any mistakes. xx

The sun trickles in, in blue curtain-cast shadows from over Louis’ shoulder, warming his bare skin lazily. Outside, birds are singing their serenity, light and airy. There’s a steady rhythm beneath his ear, and he’s not sure why he’s so calm. He woke up slowly five minutes prior to a tale-tell headache like running into a brick wall.

He groaned quietly, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes, willing them to  _just fucking focus._ It’s when he shifts a little that he notices the body he’s pressed closely to, how his cheek is body-warm, rising slightly in tandem with quiet breaths that swirl around the top of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying it to just be one of the boys. Maybe Niall crawled in with him when the party died down, maybe Liam wanted to escape the crowd and passed out with him. He knew it wasn’t, though. He knows that smell, remembers the way it lingered on his pillow, on his shirt when they’d been pressed side-by-side. He breathed deeply and opened his eyes, lifting his head a little, not enough to stir the still-sleeping form beside him. Harry.

Louis lowered himself back to Harry’s chest slowly, staring at the wall across from him. He waited for the panic, the inevitable feeling of  _wrongness_ that would surely come. He’s waited five minutes, and he’s still waiting. All he feels is warm, sated, comfortable, but that can’t be right. He remembers the night before in small bursts of color and burning drink and loud music and  _skin_ like sin. He doesn’t think Harry drank, and if he did it wasn’t nearly as much as Louis did. He wonders if he should feel scandalized, used. He doesn’t. He feels – safe. He feels an overpowering sense of security that washes through every argument of  _‘mistake’_ and  _‘meaningless’_ he can conjure.

He’s so confused, absolutely puzzled at his lack of negative response. He let Harry blow him, wanted Harry to fuck him, and made an idiot of himself in the process. Harry.  _Harry._ This beautiful, broken boy who stumbled into his life in a drunken stupor and worked his way into corners of Louis’ heart he didn’t know could beat so quickly. He’s so interesting, so endlessly endearing, everything Louis doesn’t need. He doesn’t want another mystery, another story to piece together, and Harry has so much to him. He has all these stone wall blockades in his eyes that scream at him to stay in his place, and it’s so frustrating. Sometimes, he wants to take a sledgehammer to them, break them down with all the words he doesn’t know; sometimes, he thinks it’s better this way. Harry’s a lot of things Louis never asked for – a lot of things he never knew how to ask for.

He brings his arm back over Harry’s abdomen slowly, like the skin will burn him if he moves too quickly. Harry’s breathing stays steady, his nose whistling softly in an almost-snore that Louis tries not to smile fondly at. He runs his thumb over Harry’s hipbone softly, curling further into his side, giving up and allowing himself to indulge in the moment before he has to face the other boy. Harry sucks in a deep breath, nuzzling his face deeper into Louis’ hair, and Louis freezes, but Harry’s breath evens back out quickly.

Louis relaxes instantly and finally figures out what he’s feeling – familiarity. It feels like a normal occurrence, like it isn’t strange for him to be completely naked and pressed against Harry’s side, like he could do it for the rest of his life if he wanted, and that’s fucking terrifying.

The sun rises a little higher through the curtain behind Louis, a small ray streaming through and bouncing off a small silver chain around Harry’s neck. Louis focuses on the center of his chest, on the small circular object that rests in the dip between his pecs. Louis has seen the chain before, but never what hangs from it. It’s a ring, silver with three jewels embedded in the top – an emerald and two black diamonds. It’s beautiful, and he can make out some sort of engraving on the inside of it on the side that faces him. He shouldn’t touch it, should leave it alone. He knows it must be something incredibly personal. People just don’t wear rings like that around for no reason, right?

He fights with himself for approximately ten seconds before giving in and bringing his hand up quickly, pausing long enough to make sure Harry is still asleep before picking the ring up gently. For a second, he just turns it in his hand, feels its weight and texture. He runs his thumb over the three jewels before tilting it to read the inscription wrapped around the inside,  _“And if the Swallow is still there, then trust what is in your heart.”_

It sounds familiar, and Louis is almost positive it’s a song. He stares at it a minute longer before placing the ring back in the center of Harry’s chest. It’s then that he really pays attention to Harry’s chest, the two swallow tattoos that are set to perpetually fly toward one another. He ponders that, the ring. He wants to scope out his other tattoos, the ones he’s sure he saw on the arm that’s wrapped behind him. He’s caught in that thought for a moment, his hand balled into a fist between the swallows, his thumb grazing the ring. He wonders if it’s a story, one he’ll ever get to know.

It’s at that moment that he realizes he can’t feel Harry crowding around the top of his head anymore, can’t feel himself rise and fall in time with his easy breaths. Of course.

He freezes, tenses up all over until he feels Harry’s thumb graze across his lower back in what feels like a reassuring stripe. He hesitantly looks up, and Harry’s looking down at him. Louis swallows hard; searches his eyes for weaknesses in his barricades, and is surprised when he doesn’t find any resistance. Harry’s eyes are open, and Louis sees fear, apprehension, frustration, guilt, and something else he can’t put a finger on. He wonders if his eyes are telling the same tale.

Louis doesn’t know how long they stay like that, staring into each other’s defenselessness, but it feels like a beat too long until Harry sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his head back on the pillow. Louis doesn’t know what to do, what to say in this situation. He feels so vulnerable, naked in the arms of a man he’s known for barely a month.

“Hi,” is the only thing he can think to say.

“Hi,” Harry croaks back, not opening his eyes. His face is relaxed, but his voice is laced with palpable tension that Louis wants to soothe with tea and kisses to his forehead, and that’s not a revelation he’s prepared for.

It’s quiet, so quiet, and Louis wonders where the bird went, why they stopped singing. He hears the AC kick on and it’s welcomed white noise to soundtrack the moment.

“I’m sorry,” the both say at the same time. Harry opens his eyes, looking down at him with an almost-smile, and Louis pulls himself away from the taller boy, propping himself on his side. He makes a sweeping gesture with the arm not tucked into his side, holding him up, as if to say ‘ _go on, you first.’_

Harry bites his lip, considers his words carefully. “I- um. You were drunk. I-I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that. I’m sorry.” His voice is so low and gravely and sincere and Louis wishes it were a candle scent, something to breathe in, because it’s so soft and comfortable, flutters something deep inside him he doesn’t know how to settle.

He smiles, shaking his head at Harry’s words, “Don’t, Harry. If I remember correctly, I didn’t give you much say. I wouldn’t have said or done anything if I didn’t want it.” It’s honest, he keeps eye contact with the curly boy the whole time, but it’s also the start of a conversation Louis isn’t ready to have.

Harry looks at him like he knows that, and it’s a little disconcerting. Is he really that transparent?

“Fair enough,” is all Harry says in response. They stare at each other a little longer until Harry opens and closes his mouth like he has so much to say and no way to say it. Louis thinks he knows the feeling.

“I like you,” he blurts out and Harry sputters a bit, nearly choking on his spit. He shouldn’t be so surprised, Louis’ always been on the blunt side, “A lot,” he tacks on at the end.

“Louis,” Harry starts, like a warning.

“No, Harry, let me finish.” Louis pulls himself to a sitting position, quickly grabbing a pillow and pulling it over his lap, blushing furiously. Harry stares at him for a second with a naughty smirk before looking over his side of the bed and grabbing Louis’ pants off the ground. Louis pulls them up his legs quickly, grateful to have a bit of modesty. “I know you’ve known. You must. What with,” he pauses, waving his hand, “last night and all.”

“Louis,” Harry says again in the same tone as before, pulling himself to a sitting position against the headboard, “what are you getting at here?”

“I don’t want last night to be a drunken off in the book of Harry Styles.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes are big, wide as saucers, and Louis can’t help but think this is all going terribly wrong, but he’s too far now to back down. He has to try, be brave, own up to all the feelings he doesn’t have names for.

“Go to dinner with me. Tomorrow night.” It’s not phrased as a question because he feels like statements leave less room for rejection.

Harry stares it him in what looks like disbelief, like he can’t actually understand what Louis is saying, and Louis is just about to say  _‘What, you can suck my cock but you can’t be bothered for a dinner?’_ When he sees a different emotion, many different emotions, pass through Harry’s deep green orbs.

Harry bites his lip again, throws an arm over his stomach, his other elbow rested on his wrist as he holds his necklace in his hands. “Okay,” he says quietly, and Louis would have missed it if the room hadn’t been so still.

“Okay?” Louis smile grows by the second.

“Okay,” Harry confirms.

Harry throws the covers off of him, getting out of bed and grabbing his shirt off the bedside table. He slips it over his head silently before turning back to Louis, “Former Ghosts,” he says.

Louis looks at him inquisitively until Harry pulls on the chain around his neck, dragging the ring out of his shirt. Harry looks him in the eyes, “Former Ghosts,” he explains again.

Louis gets it now, was right about it being a song, “Right,” he says softly, lowering his head in guilt. Harry doesn’t look angry, but it still wasn’t his to investigate.

Harry watches him minutely before smiling crookedly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Louis.”

When Louis lifts his head, he’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com for more story-related things.


	19. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of update, loves. One of my dear friends overdose Friday night, and I was really only ever at the hospital or at work (since my boss is a twat and wouldn't let me off). It could have been a lot worse for him, so I'm looking on the bright side now. It was just a bit of a scary weekend. Anyway, here's chapter eighteen. As always, feedback is appreciated. x

It’s half past eight the following day, and everything is going horribly wrong.

An hour earlier, Harry had been late in picking Louis up from his flat, and he tried not to be offended at the older lad’s relief upon seeing him, had to remind himself that Louis is still very much unsure of him despite his air of confidence. They hit heavy traffic, and, when they arrived at the restaurant ten minutes late, the host informed them that their reservation had been registered as a “No Show” and they’d have to wait for a table. Sometime between picking Louis up and arriving at the restaurant, Harry’s mum had somehow found out about the date and proceeded to blow up his phone until Louis gave him a sideways glance at the constant buzz from his pocket, and he turned the phone off with a shy smile, not checking a single message. When they finally do get their table, Louis ordered spaghetti bolognaise and promptly managed to spill it over his pressed white button up.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Louis whispers under his breath.

Harry only smiles warmly and offers his napkin for Louis to continue patting down his shirt and trousers. Quickly, Louis excuses himself to the restroom and Harry grabs the check, knows the other won’t really want to hang around the fancy restaurant in a ruined shirt. When he returns, he protests mildly at Harry having paid for them, but accepts Harry’s offer at a ride home with head down.

They drive back to Louis’ in relative silence, but in two different headspaces. Harry is calm and content, really only thinking that Louis never liked that particular restaurant’s spaghetti anyway. He’s had many, much worse dates with the older boy. One time, Louis got piss drunk off box wine and knocked over a gaming tent at a carnival his younger sister Lottie had dragged them to. Harry held her close as Louis barely escaped a beating from one very angry Sicilian man. Another time, Louis had been sick to his stomach for a week when he begged, _begged_ Harry to go see a movie with him, some action flick that had adverts up all around town, and in 3D because “there’s no other way to see a movie! You’re right there in it all.” He knew it was a bad idea, wanted to tell Louis no, to go to bed and bloody _listen_ to him, but then Louis got that sad look and stuck his lower lip out and Harry caved. It turned out just as he thought it would, and Louis ended up puking all over Harry’s new shoes not even a half hour into it. So, a little ruined shirt didn’t faze him.

Louis, on the other hand, is sat shotgun in Harry’s Range Rover with his hot face pressed to the cool window. He feels absolutely humiliated, cannot believe he let himself be so stupid and so clumsy and ruin any chance he had with such a beautiful boy. Normally he would look at Harry, try to break the silence, but he can’t bear to see his face formulating rejection. He can’t look into cloudy green eyes and know they’re going to deny him what he wants. He’ll put that off as long as he can.

Louis is so lost in his own worst-case-scenario, projecting like a movie on the dashboard, that he doesn’t notice Harry put the car in park until his door is opening. He jumps back a bit in his seat, the blush returning to his cheeks with a vengeance. Harry only smiles at him, holding his door open. Louis unbuckles his seatbelt and sends a very small smile in the taller lad’s direction. He stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his dark-washed blue jeans and keeps his head down as they walk to his flat. He wants to tell Harry not to bother, not to prolong the embarrassment, just to get it over with and be on his way, but he can’t. He wants him as close as he can for as long as he can have him.

When they reach the door, Louis turns on his heel and doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eye. Harry studies him carefully, analyzes his body language, and adjusts himself accordingly. He hunches over a little, not anything obscene, just enough so that when he tucks a finger under Louis’ chin and makes their eyes meet, the slighter boy isn’t looking up at him. “I had a good time tonight,” he says softly and Louis scoffs, breaking his stare to look at his shoe as it kicks lightly at the ground.

He pushes Harry’s hand from beneath his chin and crosses his arms, still looking at the ground as he says, “Don’t lie on my behalf, Harry. Tonight was a catastrophe.” He shakes his head before bringing his hands up to rub at his face, can feel the stress ease from his pores. “God, I really am sorry.”

“Louis,” Harry says firmly, and Louis does lift his stare at that, “I wouldn’t lie to you. I had a wonderful time because I was with you. Yeah, it probably could have gone better, but there’s no reason for you to be so upset, babe. I’m not.”

His smile is so genuine and shockingly honest that, if Louis could hear anything over his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, he’d try to come up with a witty response. However, it’s hard to think when his nerves are sparking, making his hands shake while god damn pterodactyls are crowding his internal organs, flapping and screeching around his stomach like a soppy sickness he’s not ready for.

Harry doesn’t give him a chance to reply, though, just bites his lip quickly before hooking a finger through the belt loop on Louis’ jeans, not really pulling, just keeping him there, “I want to see you again.”

Louis laughs humorlessly, looks up into earnest green eyes and says, “You’ve got some patience, Styles.”

Harry lifts a corner of his lips, and it’d be suggestive if his eyes weren’t so sad, “You have no idea.”

Louis wants to ask him – something. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, doesn’t know what he intends to find when he stares into Harry’s eyes. Green-grey orbs that are so open and vulnerable but have a stone wall at the furthest corners adorned with neon signs that tell him to keep out, not to trespass, and he wants to know why. He wants to climb those walls with rope and pick and breach his security. He wants to knock down every defense the younger boy has, spread his arm out and have him explain every story inked into his skin with painful detail until he has nothing left to give. And it’s so incredibly selfish, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I’d like that, too,” he says.

Harry smiles all teeth and dimples and good Lord Louis is fucked. “So, is this goodbye?”

“I guess so,” Louis says, taking a small step toward the taller boy. “Unless you’d like to join me for some tea?”

Harry’s smile never falters, “I’d love that.”

Louis smiles, feels it stretch down to the tips of his toes as he pulls away from Harry’s hold. He turns toward the door and reaches in his pocket and then pauses, his smile falling as he pats down his other pockets, brow furrowing more by the second.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice sounds distant behind Louis’ internal panic. “Louis?”

“I-I don’t think I remembered my key.” He pauses, remembering saying goodbye to Niall, and, yep, he definitely forgot his key. “Fuck,” he says, letting his head fall to the door. Of course this would be the cherry on his shit Sunday night.

“Is Niall home?” Harry asks.

“No,” Louis groans. “He had a date with, with that girl,” he waves his hand loosely, like Harry will know who he means.

“Right,” Harry sighs.

“Liam and Zayn have a spare. I’ll just walk over quickly,” Louis decides.

“They’re at Paul’s for dinner,” he says softly.

“You know Paul?” Louis turns his head, forehead still resting against the wood of the door, and manages to raise an eyebrow. Harry just nods, face clouded with tangled emotion.

“We could just go back to mine,” Harry offers quietly, a whisper that bounces off the doorframe and echoes down the corridor.

“Okay,” Louis agrees just as quietly.

\----

It’s not until Harry’s closing the door behind him that he realises that bringing Louis to his flat might have been a bad idea. Louis’ wandering around the living room with obvious curiosity, runs his fingers over the wall near the couch lightly. He digs his toes into a deep red rug, having kicked off his shoes at the door. He looks so comfortable, right where he belongs.

Harry’s frozen in place, left hand on the wall next to him, just watching Louis rediscover everything until he can’t take it anymore. “I’ll,” he starts but halts, coughing when he decides his voice is too loud. “I’ll get you some clothes, yeah? We can throw those in the wash,” he finishes quietly, not waiting for Louis’ response before heading down the hallway and to his room.

He digs around in his drawers until he finds a pair of grey sweatpants Louis used to always steal and a blue jumper that will nearly swallow him in a way he knows the older boy secretly loves. He bundles them in one hand and pushes the drawer closed with his hip. When he walks back out into the living room, Louis’ stood in front of the fireplace, looking closely at a picture on the mantle. It’s an older picture of Harry, Zayn, and Niall that Liam had taken a few years ago. The three of them are curled up in a big bed, white fluffy covers pulled up to their noses, but the smile is apparent in their eyes.

He coughs to get the other boys’ attention, and when he turns around, Harry holds out the clothes in a silent offering. Louis smiles at him, thanks him quietly as he takes the clothes, his fingers brushing Harry’s wrist as he walks down the hall without Harry telling him where the bathroom is. Harry holds his breath until he hears the door close and then he walks to the couch, flopping face-down on it.

He groans as he sinks further into the cushions, flipping onto his back and running his hands down his face. He wonders how he could be so stupid, how he could completely disregard the fact that Louis used to _live_ here – with him. The flat is just as much Louis’ as it is his, and having him back, walking around the flat all bare foot and blue eyes is too much. It’s far too much.

His finger hovers over his phone’s home button. He considers texting Niall to tell him to pick up Louis on his way home, to not make that too long from now, but he doesn’t. He gets up slowly and head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. His heart feels too heavy in his chest, he feels weighted down as he walks, his feet dragging more than usual.

He can see the living room from where he’s perched on the countertop and watches as Louis walks back out, spinning around until he spots Harry. He tilts his head like he’s sensed Harry’s mood change, but he doesn’t say anything except a muttered “thanks” as he walks into the kitchen. Harry nods and reaches into the cabinet at his side, grabbing two mugs from it.

“You have a nice place,” Louis says as he leans against the countertop and facing Harry. Harry just hums, reaching behind him to grab sugar for his tea. “Are your roommates out?”

Harry freezes, bringing his eyes back to meet Louis’, “What?”

Louis falters, unsure, “I just. This place is quite big, and I noticed a few doors?”

“Oh, no. I don’t have any roommates,” Harry says evenly.

“You live here alone?”

“Yep,” Harry says, popping the ‘p’ unnecessarily.

They fall into silence after that. Louis watches Harry as he makes their tea, thanks him as he’s handed his own cup, and follows his tall frame as they walk back into the living room. Harry collapses on the farthest end of the couch, cradles his cup and kicks his feet onto the coffee table. Louis watches as the couch sucks him back into it, like it rips away the near-tangible weight he seems to always carry on his shoulders.

Louis falls onto the crease between the middle cushion and the farthest one, turning and resting his back against the arm, tucking his feet beneath him. He should probably ask Harry if it’s okay for him to have his feet on the couch, if he should put his shoes back on, not make himself so at-home, but something tells him Harry doesn’t mind much.

He watches Harry drink his tea silently. It isn’t an uneasy silence really.  Louis just can’t help but notice Harry doesn’t look entirely relaxed, has seen him at the bar enough to know the tea he holds isn’t what he wants. It’s not even like he’s in the mood to step on toes or push boundaries, he just can’t help himself, “Harry?” Harry hums questioningly, turning his head slightly. “Why do, did you drink so much?”

Harry freezes with the cup of tea halfway to his lips and turns to look at Louis fully. He stares at him, unblinking, and Louis feels so exposed, covered in Harry’s too-big clothes, he feels naked. He wants to know, though. He wants to know why such a beautiful man lives in a huge flat all by himself, why he drank himself toxic at a bar every night until he landed himself in a hospital, wants to know why there’s no mirror in his bathroom.

Harry’s so stuck in this web of mental tug-of-war with the truth and lies that he can only stare blankly between Louis’ eyes. _‘You,’_ he thinks. _‘I drink because I can’t cope without you.’_ Louis wouldn’t understand that, though.  So, he breathes deeply and offers a weak, “Love, or the lack-there-of.”

Louis’ breathe hitches at that, remembers something he remembers Damien telling him a while back about the curly-haired boy, and, God, it’s not his place, and it isn’t something he should bring up when he’s trying to date the boy, but he can’t not at this point, “Tell me about him.”

Harry eyes him cautiously, “Who, Louis?”

“Damien told me you were in love,” he clarifies, though he knows Harry was just stalling.

Harry, like in most interactions with Louis, doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or scream. Louis’ asking about himself, and he probably knows he shouldn’t.  It’s so typical, so brash, so Louis. He probably knows it’s so out of line for him to be asking Harry something so personal, and Harry could easily tell him so. He knows Louis would nod, let it drop, but there’s a little voice in the back of his head telling him not to.  

So he nods slowly, staring into his tea thoughtfully, “He was a real gentleman, you know? Completely charming, polite, and gentle, but a right havoc at times, too. He kept me in stitches all the time, my best friend. I loved him from the minute I saw him.”

Louis is silent for a beat too long, “He sounds great,” is all he can think to say, “Perfect,” because it’s what Harry would want to hear, right?

Harry snorts, though, “Far from. He talked in his sleep, left the toothpaste cap off, couldn’t cook to save his life. He never picked up after himself, could be a bit neurotic, always woke me up early on days that I could sleep in, and there was never any milk in the flat ‘cause he would drink his bloody weight in tea.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at him, “but you loved him?” It isn’t _‘well then why did you love him?’_ , it’s _‘you did love him, right?’_

Harry’s still looking at his tea, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips, “He said he loved me in his sleep sometimes, bought his own toothpaste to dry out, and stopped trying to surprise me with breakfast after he nearly burnt our kitchen down. He always apologised when I’d trip over a shoe he left in the middle of the room with a pack of ice and cuddles, and he always made sure I knew he loved me – even if he was upset with me. He only ever woke me up early with a hot cuppa ready because he wanted to spend more time with me, and he would make the midnight trips out to the store to get more milk,” Harry pauses, taking a sip of his tea before turning to finally meet Louis’ pooling blues. “More than anything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com


	20. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for every kind word spared on mine and my friend's behalf. I'm so lucky to have such lovely readers of this story. You're all wonderful. 
> 
> As always, feedback is much appreciated. :) x

It’s half past midnight, and Harry’s about ready to pull his hair out.

He’s sat alone on his couch in his empty flat with two empty mugs on his coffee table. He has two fingers pressed to his right temple, just above where his phone rests at his ear. His mother’s voice comes through tinny but clear, “Harry, do you really think you can keep this up?”

He decided to call her back after Liam and Zayn had swung by to pick Louis up on their way back to the complex. He’d walked Louis to the door, pushed him against the wall beside it, and kept his hand hot on the smaller lad’s bare hip as he kissed his lips raw. Louis left in a breathless haze of lust and elation, completely forgetting to grab his own clothes on the way out.

“No,” Harry whispers. “I don’t know.”

His mum sighs, “Baby, I know – you want him back, but he’s not yours. Not anymore.” Harry closes his eyes so tightly that white spots dance behind his lids, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he breathes out shakily. “What are you going to tell him when he does find out? Because he will, Harry. Whether someone tells him, or, by some miracle, something trips his memory, he will find out you’ve lied to him.”

“I don’t know,” He says again. “I don’t know, mum. I-It’s so selfish. I know. I just – need him,” and there it is.

“I know, baby,” Anne’s voice drops to a soft whisper, “I know, but you love him, and you need to think about what’s best for him. I’m not saying you shouldn’t see him; I’m just asking you to be careful. I worry about you. A lot. And I can’t, can’t-” she’s cut off as her breath hitches, a weak sound falling from her mouth to bounce around the insides of Harry’s skull. A tear slips from the corner of his eye.

“I love you,” he says, is all he can offer.

Anne just cries.

\---

It’s funny, Harry thinks, how hours turn into days, and how those days build weeks and nothing ever stops. It’s been two weeks since that first date with Louis, and, since then, it’s been a blur of white smiles and tan skin and blue eyes, warm tea and soft blankets and even softer lips. They go on four more, less catastrophic, dates properly, and spend most other days in each other’s company anyway.

It’s a Wednesday when Louis asks Harry to be his boyfriend, to be his only, says he knows it may be too soon, that he doesn’t care, and Harry’s only response is to bite his lip on a smile and nod. Louis’ eyes light up and he kisses Harry fiercely, possessively, and, God, Harry’s missed that kiss. So he lets himself indulge in it, swallows down all the words of _‘only yours, was only ever yours.’_ Louis’ mouth tastes like cinnamon and sunshine and lingers on Harry’s tongue long after he’s gone.

Later that night, Zayn and Liam are over after Louis’ gone to work. Zayn claps Harry on the back, “I’m happy for you, mate. That didn’t take long.” He’s full of smiles and genuine kindness, and Harry feeds off it like he’s starved, just wants to know he’s doing the right thing, knows he isn’t.

Liam just tugs one corner of his lips up, thankfully not voicing all the things he wants to say, knows it isn’t the time. He keeps one hand placed on Zayn’s thigh, more for his own comfort than anything, squeezes when he has to bite his tongue. Zayn just throws his arm around his boyfriend, plays absentmindedly with the hem on the arm of his white t-shirt, and gives Harry his attention.

They leave not long after, and Liam hasn’t said a word, but he hugs Harry tightly in a way that says enough.

\---

Over the nearly three weeks since their first date, Louis had spent more and more time at the flat. He even has his own drawer in Harry’s dresser and a spare key on his key-ring. More times than not, he’ll just come back to Harry’s after work “since it’s closer and all,” and Harry doesn’t mind.

It’s the Friday, the fifteenth, when things start to deteriorate.

It’s nearly ten in the morning, and the sun is at a comfortable mid-rise in the sky, warm beams dancing through the living room curtains in a way that completely deceives how cold it actually is outside. That’s how Louis finds himself bent over a cardboard box at the bottom of Harry’s closet with Harry doing the same to a box he’d pulled off the top shelf about a meter away from him. The November winds are getting bitter, and Harry has yet to pull out his heavier winter coats despite the chill deepening more and more over the past couple of months in warning.

 “I still haven’t found anything thicker than those bloody cardigans,” Louis grumbles, leaning back up to watch younger boy throw clothes over his shoulder.

Harry stops, rubbing his hand over his jaw as he thinks. “They might be in the guest room closet. Would you mind lookin’?”

Louis nods, knees creaking a bit as he stands up completely, and walks down the hall. He’s faced with two doors diagonal and opposite each other, and he decides the one on the right is his best bet.

It isn’t, he finds out, and he walks into a large room with dark wooden floors and soft blue walls with white curtains that flow easily from where the window is cracked open just so in a way that suggests it’s forgotten. The left wall is lined with guitars – three acoustic, two electric – and one yellow ukulele. The right wall is lined with bookshelves that don’t have even the smallest slot left open, a comfy looking old recliner with loose threads and scratched paint around the trim placed just to the side. In the middle of the room, there’s a large, black grand piano. The row of ivory looks so inviting, and Louis can see the dust collected on the top. It’s such a peaceful atmosphere, like its own little world. Louis wants to curl up with his tea and never leave.

He hears footsteps, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s stepped forward, his fingers running through the dusted keys. “Louis?” he hears, and then the footsteps stop.

He whips around, a bright smile beaming at Harry who’s stood in the doorway, “You didn’t tell me you were a musician!”

“I’m not,” Harry says quickly, his face is contorted and he looks like he’s in pain, and it’s so confusing.

Louis just laughs, “You must be! Or, what, your roommates play?” He scrunches his nose at his own joke, eyes leaving Harry to glance around the room again.

“I used to play guitar,” Harry says quietly, drawing Louis’ eyes back to him, “a long time ago.”

Louis doesn’t understand. Harry’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed and he’s looking around the room like it’s all new to him, too. His shoulders are drawn up like he’s scared, scared of stepping into the open space, being swallowed by it.

“That’s great, Harry! Play me something,” he says it like there’s no room for negotiation as he walks to where the guitars hang.

“No,” Harry says quickly, coldly, and Louis freezes.

His face drops, but he recovers quickly, “Oh, come on, Harry. You can’t be that bad. I used to play piano, me. I was never that good, though,” he smiles as he looks back over at the black instrument, wanting to touch the hammers and strings. When he looks back, Harry looks even more upset, anxious even, and it’s so, so frustrating.

“Louis, come on, get out of there, we still haven’t found my coats,” his voice is firm but quiet, like anything louder would shatter the windows.

“No,” Louis says, crossing his arms and stamping his foot a bit like a toddler, “Just one song, Harry – not even! Just play me a bit, yeah?”

Harry runs his hands over his face like Louis is such a pain and sighs heavily. “No,” he says again.

“Why not?” Louis throws his hands up in exasperation, his annoyance building by the second.

Harry just stares at him in a way that is completely unnerving. He doesn’t blink; his jaw is set in a hard line and his hands are curled into white-knuckled fists. Inside, Harry’s angry, almost irrationally so, because how _dare_ Louis break his illusion, this façade he’s been living in? How dare he pull him back into a reality he never wanted? He’s hit with a wave, a tidal wave of realisation of just how _unfair_ it all is. He doesn’t have a reason for Louis, not one he could or would know how to tell. He can’t tell the blue eyed boy it’s because of him, how he hasn’t touched those six strings since that cerulean stare went blank, how he’s forgotten what it’s like to sing with the birds that perch at the windowsill.

“Drop it, Louis,” he demands.

“Fuckin’ hell, Harold,” Louis grumbles, “I’m so fucking sick of your secrecy!” Harry knows this, should have seen the signs earlier, but now it’s too late, and Louis is going to explode. He’s been bottling up his insecurities, his troubles, and now he’s breaking his binds and turning them loose between them. “You’ve got to let me in! Sometimes, it’s like I hardly know you!”

Harry feels like he’s been punched in the gut, had the wind knocked out of him. He wonders if Louis can see his agony, _‘Probably not.’_

“Where is this coming from, Louis?” He knows it’s the wrong thing to ask, but he also knows it will make Louis spill his guts, come completely clean, and he just wants it all out, a clean slate.

Louis grinds his teeth, his stance becoming defensive as he stares at Harry with hurt, “You’re so fuckin’ frustrating,” he grumbles, running a palm over his forehead quickly, “You know, sometimes I think you’re still in love with him.”

Harry’s blood runs cold, “What?”

“You bloody well heard me,” He says, squaring his shoulders. “I’m not trying to take your ex-boyfriend’s place, Harry. I’m not. It’s obvious that whatever happened between you two affected you in a really big way, and, and whatever, okay? That’s alright. I just – I’m here now, and I want to be with you, and I want to _have_ all of you, and I don’t think I do. I think he still has a piece of you, and it sucks. It sucks so much because I’m here asking for the chance to love you, and you’re still in love with him.”

“Louis,” Harry feels like his tongue is tripping over itself in his attempt to get his words out quicker, his heart beating erratically, “No. I’m not, I-”

“Bullshit,” Louis cuts him off, and it’s almost a whisper, a sad, defeated sound that slips off his tongue with drops of venom.

“Louis, I do-”

“I think I do love you,” Louis says, like it’s the simplest fact in the world, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s going to be sick, “and I’m sorry if that scares you. It probably should, but I think I’ve known from the moment I saw you run out the bar that I do. It fucking terrifies me, because this is too fast, Harry. I haven’t known you two months, but I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. I feel like you were there with me and the boys in school, like you’ve always been there, and – and that wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to fall for you, not like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.”

\---

That night, they’re at Liam and Zayn’s flat with Niall for a dinner they’d been invited to a couple of days back. If any of the other boys have noticed the tension hanging between Harry and Louis, they’ve been kind enough not to say anything.

They had ridden over together, Harry carefully reaching for Louis’ hand after a few minutes of driving, relieved when the older lad intertwined their fingers, even if he only continued to stare out the passenger window silently. They hadn’t said much after their argument. Harry couldn’t find the words he needed, and Louis felt more than a little vulnerable after his outburst. So they kept silent, slow dancing on a high wire.

Louis’ mood lifts considerably, however, once they’re in the comfort of their friend’s flat. Niall and Liam are playing FIFA, and Harry can see Zayn out on the balcony, leaning against the railing with a cigarette tucked between his fingers. Louis jumps on the couch and slaps Niall’s arm playfully, going on about the last time he’d played Liam and “absolutely crushed him. I swear he nearly cried!”

Harry sits quietly on the couch, a suitable distance away from Louis, until Zayn announces their dinner is ready. They pile into the kitchen and crowd around the small table, and Harry sends Louis a feeble smile when the shorter lad grabs his hand to pull him into the seat next to his.

Everything goes smoothly, perfectly until dessert. They talk and trade stories and Harry even laughs so hard he’s sent into a coughing fit. Then Liam’s getting up and grabbing a cake off the counter top, placing it in the middle of the table. Louis stops mid-sentence of his story about his mum’s neighbor’s cousin’s step-brother’s cat and grabs at Liam’s hand so quickly he nearly jumps back.

“Liam! What the bloody hell is this?!” He’s got Liam’s left hand tightly in his own, his other hand twisting a small silver band around his fourth finger. He’s smiling so brightly that it looks like it must hurt.

“I-I,” Liam stutters, glancing at everyone around the table, freezing his eyes on Zayn for help. “I-Louis-”

“I asked him to marry me,” Zayn cuts in, all eyes turning to him. “He said yes.”

Louis jumps up, all but jumping over the table to hug Liam fiercely, “Oh my God! Liam! Zayn! This is so, so wonderful! I’m so happy for you! I’m the best man, right? Oh, come on, at least one of you. I better be! Head will roll, Payne. Try me. This is so great. Oh my God. A wedding!”

Harry’s on fire. His skin is absolutely burning from the inside out. His breath is shallow, his body tense all over from the rippling pain sent through his entire being. He wants to claw out of his skin because it’s too tight and too hot and his fingers itch and ache and his throat opens and closes in quick intervals and his ears ring in a high pitched siren telling him to get out, get out, get out. He feels it, the need, like dull pain in the back of his skull, a devil sat on his shoulder, creeping up on him like a shadow of a nightmare until it’s sharp and demanding, and it happens so suddenly that Harry doesn’t notice he’s gotten up until he’s wrenching the front door open and walking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com


	21. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Only one chapter left after this one. The last chapter is a bit of a monster - quite long. Thank you all for your kind words regarding the story and my writing. It really does mean the world to me. Also, I haven't had a chance to proofread yet, and I need to get back to work, so please forgive any mistakes. :) 
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated. x

Louis is livid, absolutely appalled by Harry’s behaviour. The minute the taller boy is out of sight, the shorter is spinning on his heel, looking at his friends around the table, and he’s even more confused by their reactions.

Liam’s moved over to stand behind Zayn, one hand on his fiancé’s shoulder and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathes deeply, clenching and unclenching his hand on the fabric of Zayn’s shirt slowly. Zayn’s posture is casual as he stares at the open door. He’s leaned back in his chair, one hand reaching to grab Liam’s and his other twitching on the table in a way Louis knows means he’s just itching for a cigarette. And then there’s Niall. His eyes reach Niall to find him already looking into his own blue eyes expectantly, like he expects Louis to do something, say something, fix it.

Louis hesitates just a moment longer, “What the fuck was that?” he spits. He’s fuming, absolutely fuming because he doesn’t _understand._

Liam sighs heavily, like he’s breathing out a lot more than air, and squeezes his eyes closed one more time before raising his honey brown eyes to meet Louis’ blue. “Louis,” he starts, dropping his gaze, “You should probably follow him.”

“Or not,” Niall adds quietly.

Louis’ gaze flicks between the two boys silently, trying to understand. He looks over to Zayn and if it weren’t for how tightly his jaw is set, it would look like he’s zoned out completely for how still he is. “Or not,” Louis echoes, “He’s been a miserable twat all day,” he grumbles as he crosses his arms over his chest, and it sounds more hurt than angry.

“Louis-” Liam starts but is quickly cut off by the chair in front of him scraping against the kitchen floor and tapping his stomach as Zayn stands up quickly.

“Goin’ for a fag,” he mumbles, slipping out the sliding balcony door and not looking back.

It’s silent, so silent that Louis can count his heartbeats; the breaths coming from a slightly congested Niall, the ticks of a wall clock still set an hour and three minutes off-time that hangs over the stove filter through his ears before he’s tugging at the sleeves of his jumper.

“What is going on?” his voice is low but firm because they’ve done this before. They get that look in their eyes, a nostalgic shimmer that shines over Louis’ face with frustrating rays of days he can’t remember, and it isn’t fair.

Liam meets his stare for only a moment. “Louis, I-,” he clears his throat, “There’s a lot you don’t, don’t know about Harry.”

Louis clenches his teeth at the sharp tug in his stomach. “Apparently,” he says quietly. He brings both hands up behind his head to run his fingers through the hair at the back of his head and then grips tightly. He takes one more look at his friends before turning sharply and walking out still-open front door, makes one left turn, and walks down to his and Niall’s flat.

It’s when he steps through the door, though, that he’s hit with the realisation of how much the flat _isn’t_ his. The entry hall flooring is a strange linoleum tile that’s barred at the beginning of the living room carpet instead of the dark-stained wood floors that line Harry’s flat. The kitchen is white and lifeless and makes him ache with an overwhelming feeling of temporariness because he’s become so used to a kitchen with red walls and stainless steel appliances and a curly-haired boy in his boxer shorts cooking him breakfast. There aren’t any big windows or high ceilings, and his bed is made and smells nothing like Harry’s body wash. He wonders when he became so bloody used to him.

He shuts his bedroom door, ripping off his jumper and tossing it to the side. He strips his jeans as he walks and climbs into bed in just his boxers, breathing in the scent of not-Harry, and desperately ignores his mind’s mantra, declarations of _‘not good enough,’_ because if Harry didn’t want him, he’d say so, wouldn’t he?

It’s not too long later when his door creaks open, and he doesn’t have to raise his head to know it’s Zayn. Liam would have knocked and Niall would have started talking the moment it was open. He hears the soft click of the door closing before the covers are being lifted and a hand is being placed on his back, pulling him into a strong embrace. He tucks his head under Zayn’s, in the crook of his neck, and breathes deeply. He smells like cigarette smoke and fabric softener, and Louis feels some of the tension leave him immediately.

He’s so lucky, he thinks. He and Harry have singlehandedly ruined the announcement of their best mate’s engagement, and yet half that relationship is in his bed and holding him like he’s the one that’s been wronged. He whimpers softly at that thought, bringing a hand around to hold onto Zayn’s shirt.

For a long time – maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour – they just lay there, and Louis can’t help but be thrown back to his younger teenage years, the ones he can remember. Suddenly he’s barely fourteen and his parents are fighting more and more, and his sexuality is getting harder and harder to ignore, and Zayn just wraps around him like a lazy vine soaking up Louis’ sunshine whenever he sees the older boy begin to wilt. He’s never had to ask, never had to explain because Zayn is Zayn, and, for as quiet as he can be, he’s got a heart as loud as lions.

“He’s such a prick,” Louis mumbles, his hot breath thick on Zayn’s collarbones.

Zayn pulls up one corner of his mouth in a small half-smile and brings the hand he tucked under Louis’ pillow around to card through the fine hairs at the nape of the older lad’s neck. “Can be, yeah,” he agrees softly.

“Remind me why you lot are friends with him?” He says it like it’s meant to be a joke, but Zayn just brings his hand down to rest at the dip of his shoulders, his thumb running lightly between them.

“He loves you,” he says quietly. Louis knows it isn’t the answer to his question, that Zayn probably didn’t even register what he had said, that it’s something the younger boy had, had planned to say before he stepped foot in his room.

“ ‘m not so sure,” Louis murmurs back like a confession or admission of guilt. Zayn doesn’t reply and Louis’ thankful for that. He’s not sure he has the energy to explain what he means, but maybe Zayn already knew that.

It’s quiet then, and they don’t move until Louis can actually feel the sun fall lower in the sky against his skin as it comes through the window. The room is alive with blue curtain-cast in odd shadows that Louis had forgotten he hated, and there’s a bird sat just outside singing some high-pitched song that makes his ears ring.

He closes his eyes tightly and imagines himself in Harry’s spare room with a cup of tea and his favorite blanket, curled up in that ratty, old recliner with the dustiest book he could find on the untouched shelves beside it. He can almost feel the way the bitter wind would push through the crack in that middle window, can almost see the way the curtains would float around it, can almost hear six strings strumming lightly by bare fingers to the slightly off-tempo beat of bare feet while pretty pink lips wrapped around words that could make his heart soar.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, nuzzling deeper into Zayn.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn echoes, and it sounds more like an advance, a prelude, and Louis doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Instead, they just lay there mutely, listening to the bird sing its high-pitched tune, and let their silence speak for them.

\------------------------

It’s half past nine by the time Zayn shows up to the record shop. His footsteps fall like bombshells on the cold concrete and brick that leads to the front door. He’s got his cellphone in one hand and his spare key in the other, and he hopes like hell he’ll only have to keep one, but he doesn’t count on it.

He knows Harry, the ins-and-outs of him; he knows that Harry loves with all he is, that he carries the secrets he’s chained to with barbwire ties. He’s young and immature and irresponsible and fickle and frayed at the edges of his consciousness because he never asked for any of the darkness he holds. He feels deeply, and Zayn knows that some scars of the past years are etched more into his bones than his heart.

He takes a deep breath and unlocks the door with one hand and his phone with the other. He presses on the door and watches as it creaks backward easily. “Harry?” he calls out, “Harry, mate?” Frigid air clouds around him as it pours out the doorway. The store is dark, but Zayn knows he’s here. He wouldn’t go home, and he wouldn’t got to Mike’s. He’s surely not back at his, and he’s definitely not at Louis’. He hasn’t gone to see his mum, and he’d want to be alone. “Harry?” he tries one more time, his voice timid, strained, resigned.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping into the shop and pocketing his key. He smells it in the air, the confirmation of all his suspicion, fears. “Fuck,” he squeezes his eyes shut, but quickly rights himself, dialing 999. He listens to an operator ask him what service he needs and drops his head, his free hand cupping his forehead. “I need an ambulance,” he says firmly, “now.”

When he hangs up, he pockets his phone and fights the fireball of anxiety that’s settled at the back of his tongue. He is strong, has always been the strong one. So he raises his head and walks steadily around the counter and flips the light switch for when the paramedics arrive. He places his hand on the doorknob that leads to the back room and watches as the gold coloured metal fogs at the warmth of his hand. He swallows hard once and pushes the door open.

The lights are off and he can hear Coldplay’s album _Parachutes_ playing quietly from a record player they have tucked into the farthest left corner by the vinyl. ‘ _We Never Change_ ’ filters in an eerie passing echo, pushes through the still air with dull edges and dares Zayn to step forward. He lifts his left hand to flick the switch he knows is there and watches as the room is flooded with violent florescent light.

He sees him then, leaned up against the record player in a half-slumped position on the floor. His back is curved awkwardly between the wall and ground, one knee bent upward and pressed to the wooden rack that hold old smooth jazz records and his other splayed out lifelessly. His chest is barely rising and falling in painfully long intervals. His eyes are closed, his whole body limp, his right hand wrapped loosely around the base of an empty bottle of vodka.

He looks nearly peaceful. His eyes are puffy, dark bags hanging beneath them, but his face is relaxed. His curls are frayed and scattered, but his mouth hangs open slightly like it does when he sleeps deeply enough to dream. His clothes are rumpled, his shirt stained down the front from where the drink probably dribbled from his lips and probably a bit from where he’d been sick beside himeslf. Zayn can’t help but wonder how slowly his heart is beating, if it’s just as tired as Harry is, if it’s just as ready, peaceful.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, staring at his broken friend, but he breathes deeply through his nose when he hears sirens coming closer. It grows louder and louder until the room behind him flashes with colour and the siren rings through Zayn’s ears like a prayer and nearly drowns out the record player. He hears the sound of people shuffling outside the doors and takes one more look at the curly boy on the ground, how he looks like he’s floating, still peaceful, somewhere else. He wonders what plays behind his closed eyes, if Louis is there with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com for all your NODIB needs. x


	22. Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this seriously the last chapter? Wow. I’m not even sure what to say. There’s so much. Thank you so much to everyone who has given this story a chance. I appreciate every kind word sent my way. You’re all so incredibly lovely, and I don’t deserve even half of your love. It’s been a tough couple of weeks, so thank you for standing by me. All I can say, again, is thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I guess this is it.

Louis wakes up to a loud knock on his bedroom door. He cracks an eye open and stares down the soft green light from his alarm clock. “It’s one in the morning,” he calls out, his voice croaky and sounding far too loud for the stillness of his room. “Kindly fuck off.” When he doesn’t hear anything for a moment, he closes his eyes again.

The door opens and he snaps his head up. Liam’s stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. He’s dressed in a dark green jumper that Louis knows belongs to Zayn and thick grey sweatpants. His face is a mix between the irritated and soft around the edges of his sleep. “C’mon,” he says, sighing heavily, “Get up. Harry’s in the hospital.” Louis sits bolt upright, his eyes wide. “Niall’s bringing the car around. Get your slippers on, mate,” he says before turning on his heel and heading toward the living room.

Louis sits there for just a moment longer. _‘Harry,’_ he thinks, like a mantra, _‘Harry, Harry, Harry, fuck.’_ He jumps out of bed far too quickly and stumbles as his ankle gets tangled in a stray scarf long-since abandoned on the floor. He detangles himself and slips on the closest pair of shoes that match and a deep red beanie to cover his bedhead as he runs out the door.

In the living room, Liam’s sat on the edge of the coffee table with his head in his hands, just breathing deeply. Niall’s leaned against the wall that leads to the entry hall and twirling his car keys around his finger. They both raise their heads when Louis stops abruptly.

“What are we waiting for, a fuckin’ invitation? Let’s go!” He’s got his eyebrows pulled together at his friends’ lack of reaction.

Liam and Niall share a look as Liam rises to his feet, slinging an arm around Louis and walking with him to the door, far too slowly for Louis’ liking. He quickens his pace, forcing the boys to match him as his mind races. He’s on fire, sharp pinpricks needling at his skin, his skin is too god damn tight, and why the _fuck, how_ the fuck are Liam and Niall so calm?

“What happened?” He finally asks, has the courage to, as he climbs into the backseat of Niall’s Range Rover. The question has been hanging at the back of his throat, ramming against the lump in his throat since Liam’s said those four words at his door. His stomach turns with anxiety, because, for as much of a twat Harry’s been, Louis fucking loves him.

Three doors shut at nearly the same time and Liam spares him a glance from the passenger seat as he buckles himself in. He moves his head to share a glance with Niall, and Louis is getting really sick of that, of that knowing look they share. “What?” Louis asks more firmly, louder. “What the fuck is going on?” He’s getting angry now, “And why the fuck are you so calm? Harry’s in the fucking hospital! Surely this calls for a little urgency!” He glances between the two in the front seat as Niall puts the car into drive, watches as different emotions pass over their face, none of which he expects.

“Louis,” Liam sighs, turning in his seat to face the older boy, “Zayn found Harry unconscious at the record shop.” He reaches out for Louis’ hand and Louis slowly complies, keeping a cautious eye on the other boy’s face. “He’d been – drinking. The doctors said it’s alcohol poisoning,” Liam watches him carefully with every word he says.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers, pulling his hand from Liam’s to cover his mouth, “Fuck, that’s, that’s serious, that, innit? Is he alright? Fuck, Liam, is-”

“He’s alright,” Liam cuts him off firmly. “He’s as ‘okay’ as he can be. He’s awake and breathing and pissed as all hell. They’ve got him all hooked up and hydrated and getting him proper vitamins. He might need a bit of dialysis, but he’s going to be okay.”

Louis visibly relaxes for a moment, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d kept captive, before he freezes again, staring Liam down, “When did this all happen? It’s obviously been a while if they know all this. Why did no one call me?” He’s starting to get more and more upset. Why had Harry been drinking in the first place? Why had he been at the record shop and not at home? Louis was half expecting for Harry to crawl into his bed and wrap him up with whispered apologies Louis would pretend to not hear. Why does he feel like he’s the last person on Earth to know his own boyfriend is ill?

“We’ve been through this with him before, Louis,” Niall admits, speaking to him for the first time since Harry’s departure the night before. “Zayn just – knew when he got to the store. He wanted everything to get settled before everyone was brought in.”

Louis bring his eyebrows together, briefly wonders if the crease between them will become a permanent feature after this night, “That’s really not his call.”

“Harry is okay,” Liam repeats, and yeah, okay, Harry is okay.

\---

Liam called Zayn when they were pulling into the hospital parking lot, so, once they’ve walked through the automatic doors and into the brightly lit lobby, he’s waiting for them. He looks exhausted. He’s got dark circles under his chocolate-coloured eyes and his hair is frayed in a way Louis knows means he’s been running his fingers through it all night. The sleeves of his deep blue long-sleeved shirt are pushed up to his elbows messily, and he’s got a small paper cup of coffee in his hand.

He sends them a tired smile when he looks up from his phone, leaning in to kiss Liam quickly before wrapping his arms around Niall and Louis in turn. Louis takes a moment to breathe him in. He smells like he had earlier that night, cigarettes and fabric softener, now with just a hint of coffee, and it works like a charm. Louis feels some of his tension melt into the floor beneath him.

“How is he?” he whispers beneath the boy’s ear.

“He’s alright, babe,” Zayn breathes back to him, looking over his shoulder at Liam and silently asking him to take his coffee so he can get both arms around the shorter lad.

“God,” Louis breathes out shakily, “Why?”

Zayn holds him securely, fingers digging slightly into his friend’s side. “He loves you,” Zayn mumbles, and this time Louis isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be reassurance or an answer.  

He holds his breath, counts the seconds that pass until he can hear his heart beat in his ears, until his chest is aching with the need for air, until Zayn rubs his back and whispers, “Breathe, Louis. Breathe,” so softly. He sucks in his breath and releases an embarrassing choked whimper as he lets himself lose it all.

 He cries into Zayn’s shoulder, burrowing his head and gripping his sides and letting his whole body wrack with is. He isn’t even sure _why_ he’s crying. There are so many things he’s aggravated and upset by, he can’t put his finger on it. He’s standing in a hospital, the place that ruined his life, because the boy he fell far too quickly for drank himself into a bloody stupor, and Louis doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t know why because he doesn’t _know_ the deepest parts of Harry, not what makes him tick. Harry’s so lovely and quick-witted, all crater-esque dimples and lethal charm. He’s a force to be reckoned with, but he’s all of those things because he is so guarded and timid. He allows the illusion of closeness without ever giving too much of himself away, and Louis hates it.

So, he supposes he’s crying for himself. He’s crying for his own selfishness, for a love that isn’t his. He’s crying because Harry belongs to someone else, and, despite his efforts, he really just doesn’t compare. He cries because he wasn’t good enough, is never fucking good enough. He couldn’t keep Harry sober, didn’t see his warning signs, got _angry_ at him for storming out instead of chasing him down. He could’ve prevented this entire ordeal. He could be curled up in the younger boy’s strong arms right now, asleep with their legs tangled, pretending and dreaming of Harry being only his, all his entirely.

Loving Harry is like beating his head against a brick wall, again and again and again. Louis’ got bruises and scars and surely a concussion by now, but he’s tenacious and selfish and he just keeps hoping that if he waits it out, tries hard enough, Harry will be  his. He’s had moments that felt like that, sweet victory, and they’re warm like honey in his veins when they pass, but they’re fragmented and always end in a condescending smile, like Louis just wouldn’t _understand,_ and it takes everything in Louis to not yell, “of course I’m not going to understand if you don’t talk to me!” every time he sees it.

Despite the boy’s secrecy, the hidden pools of retention that swirl in his emerald orbs, Louis tripped over himself and fell in love with the way runaway curls look splayed across a pillow top.

“Is he awake?” Louis finally asks.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs. “He’s mad, though, because he’s sobering up and they want to keep him for a couple of days.”

Louis sighs, breathing in Zayn once more before pulling away from him, “Can I see him?”

Zayn reaches back out to touch his elbow lightly, “You sure, babe?” Louis nods. “Alright, but just know he’s snappy, and he honestly doesn’t mean anything he says. Okay?”

“I’m fine, Zayn,” he assures. He’s not really sure what to expect from Harry. He’s seen him in this setting, seen pale limbs on white sheets, troubled eyes that swim with regret. That was when he was “done,” though, and Harry never really told him _why_ he stopped drinking, just that it was too much and never enough.

In this moment, his feet against stark white tile as he moves farther down the nearly vacant hallway that leads to room number Zayn had called behind him, it doesn’t matter. Harry is his boyfriend, and it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t love Louis as much as the older boy loves him, or that he can feel a lead weight settle in his core. Harry is hurt, and Louis owes it to him to be by his side even if he doesn’t understand.

He reaches the door and takes a deep breath, and it’s when he reaches for the doorknob that he realises his hands are shaking. He pushes it open without knocking and his eyes struggle to adjust to the darker room. All the overhead lights are off, the only light coming from a small lamp in the farthest corner. It casts a warm glow that mixes with the light of the city pouring through the open curtains. Harry’s sat up in his bed, looking out the window, watching the world carry on outside.

Louis lets the door close behind him, the _click_ of it nearly echoing in the stillness of the room. Harry still hasn’t turned to look at him, and Louis wants to be annoyed by it, but he isn’t. Instead, he stands there, just inside the doorway and watches the other boy breathe. He watches the way his chest rises and falls shallowly, can tell his mind is somewhere else, briefly wonders where.

When he’s had as much as he can take of the suffocating silence, he coughs loudly into an open fist, and Harry’s head snaps to him immediately. The only reaction he gets is the way the younger boy’s eyebrows furrow and then quickly soothe out.

“Hi, love,” Louis says softly, and Harry doesn’t reply, doesn’t even acknowledge that Louis is speaking to him. Louis tries and fails to keep the disappointment off his face. “You gave me a bit of a scare,” he tries to chuckle as he ducks his head down and walks to the bed. Again, Harry says nothing. His face is completely indifferent but tracking Louis’ every move with a calculated expression, as if he were a snake, and Louis stiffly thinks he could be. His cold eyes, his next words could surely strike Louis to his knees.

Harry only watches as Louis drags a chair next to his bed, settles himself on the edge of it, and carefully reaches for his hand. He allows his hand to be held, but doesn’t hold in return. Louis runs his thumb over the veins at Harry’s wrist and wills with everything in him for Harry to react to him. “Harry,” he begins, trails off for a moment. “Why?” And it’s such a loaded question, but he’s not even sure he’ll get an answer.

“C’mon, Louis,” Harry sighs softly, mumbling, “It’s not that serious.”

Louis looks up from his hand and brings his eyebrows together. Harry’s gaze has dropped to their interlocked hands, his shoulders slumped in something like defeat. “Harry, alcohol poisoning,” he prompts quietly, almost scolding. “I mean, fuck, you could have died-”

Harry cuts him off, huffing and pulling his hand from Louis to cross his arms across his chest, “What if that was the fucking point, Louis?”

Louis freezes, completely stunned. He wouldn’t. “You wouldn’t,” he breathes.

“Yeah, well,” Harry says indifferently, shrugging and turning his head to look back out the window.

“No,” Louis says firmly, far too loudly for the room’s fragile atmosphere. “You wouldn’t fucking dare. What about Zayn, Harry? What about Liam and Niall? What about your mum and your sister and all the people who love you? What about me?” He sees Harry go tense, watches his muscles contract beneath his skin. “That’s not fucking fair.”

“Don’t talk to me about fair, Louis,” Harry whips his head around, his eyes staining red, unshed tears collected in the corner of his eyes. “Don’t you dare fucking talk to me about what is _fair_ ,” he spits the last word like it’s poison on his tongue.

“I love you,” Louis says, is all he can think to say, but it seems to work because Harry falls back to his propped up bed and brings his hands to his face.

“Louis,” he says, and then the floodgates open. He sobs brokenly, a wretched noise that rips from his throat with deadly velocity. It bounces around the room with sharp edges and breaks through Louis’ skin. “I-” he starts but cuts himself off, “Louis, I’m. Fuck, Louis come here,” he begs, bringing his arms out and making grabby hands for the older boy.

Louis easily complies, lifting himself from the chair and propping himself up on the side of the bed. Harry sits up and wraps around him. His arms grip tightly to Louis’ shoulders, fingernails digging into his shoulders harshly and he buries his head in Louis’ collarbone. Louis feels the hot tears in the fabric of his shirt, dripping down his skin. He brings one hand around the boy’s middle, the other going into his hair, running his fingers through the raucous curls softly.

They stay like that, wrapped in each other, until Louis’ back starts to protest the position. He moves them to lie on the bed together, ankles crossed as they face one another. Louis tucks a stray curl behind Harry’s ear and caresses his cheekbone with a gentle thumb. Harry stares into familiar blue eyes and wonders if they know of the chokehold they have on his heart.

“I didn’t mean it,” Harry whispers, his breath clouding hot around Louis face.

“I know,” Louis whispers back, moving his hand to rub circles into Harry’s hip. He didn’t know, not really. He believed him when he’d said it. Why wouldn’t he? Harry’s unpredictable, a puzzle piece with some of the pieces missing, a windshield with a crack down the middle, a tornado on a clear day.

They don’t say anything after that, and Louis falls asleep to the way hands smooth across his ribs.

\---

For the next two days, Louis barely leaves the hospital. He sits by Harry’s bedside and laughs with him, talks with him, keeps him company. He calls in the day he’s supposed to work and Damien sends Harry his well wishes. They find out the morning of the third day that Harry will be released in the afternoon.

Louis, Liam, and Zayn are sat in the cafeteria of the hospital. It’s just past ten in the morning, Niall is at his class and Harry is asleep. Louis sips his coffee gingerly while Liam and Zayn tuck into their salads.

“God, I forgot how much the food here sucks,” Liam sighs.

Louis chuckles, pointing to his cup, “Hence the coffee, mate.”

“Piss off. I’m starving,” Zayn complains. “How’s our boy?” The other boys hadn’t had much of a chance to be around the hospital. It’s another reason Louis stayed so often. He knows how unbearably boring it can be, how the white walls can drive you crazy. Niall’s been busy with finals before they break for holiday, and Liam and Zayn have had to work at the shop every day because of that and Harry being out for the count.

“He’s alright,” Louis says, placing his coffee back on the table and wrapping his cold hands around it. “Wants to go home,” he adds.

“I’m sure,” Liam smiles fondly.

It’s then that Louis eyes hone in on that silver ring around his left hand as Liam’s lifting his fork to his mouth. “Congratulations, by the way,” Louis smiles guiltily. “I don’t think I ever got a chance to say.”

Liam and Zayn both chuckle and Zayn takes Liam’s right hand in his own, “Thank you,” he smiles. “Been a long time coming, I suppose.”

“That it has,” Louis agrees. “Which is why Harry’s reaction to it is even more confusing to me,” he sighs, stirring his coffee with the little black straw he’s placed in it. “He’s been friends with you lot for quite a bit, right? I don’t – was he surprised?” Louis watches as their faces fall simultaneously. “I’m sorry,” he starts quickly, sitting back in his chair, “I shouldn’t have-”

Zayn cuts him off, “Louis. Harry was engaged.”

Louis’ head snaps up, “Engaged?”

“It’s why we didn’t tell you two sooner,” Liam admits shyly.

“What? Wait, how long have you two-”

“About a week and a half,” Zayn says quickly. “We were trying to figure out how to tell Harry because we knew if he found out on his own, he’d have a meltdown,” he gestures in the general direction of Harry’s room in reference.

“Engaged,” Louis says lowly, testing out the weight of the word on his tongue. He brings his hands to rub the tension out of his face. “Engaged. Is that the, the,” he gestures to where a necklace would hang around his neck if he had one, “then?”

Zayn nods slowly as Liam looks away, “Yeah, it is.”

“Fuck,” Louis says. “No wonder he’s still so bloody in love.”

“What?” Liam asks, his gaze snapping back up to meet blue eyes, eyebrows pulled together.

“Harry,” Louis clarifies. “Sometimes, it just, it feels like he’s still in love with his ex, you know? I keep trying to be good enough, to make him forget that guy. There’s got to be a reason they’re not together, right? I just – guys, I love him. I know it’s too fast, and it’s too soon, but I do. I really do, and it’s so difficult because he’s still belongs to someone else.”

“Louis,” Liam breathes, like what Louis said hurt him, “Louis, that doesn’t-”

Zayn cuts him off, “Louis? I – I’ve just remembered that I forgot to pack Harry clothes for when he’s allowed to leave tonight, and neither of us are going to have time to run by his flat,” he points to himself and Liam, “Do you think you could do it?”

Louis sends Liam a confused look at the drastic change of subject, but brushes it off easily. Zayn’s one of those people that, when something pops into his head, he feels the need to say it immediately before he forgets it, because he absolutely will forget it. “Yeah, mate, I can do that.”

“Great,” Zayn smiles. “He’ll just need some jeans, maybe his white converses? Not the new ones, he likes the old ones better. They should be at the top of his closet. Oh, and he’ll need a heavy coat. They’re in his spare room closet.”

Louis nods, “Okay. Yeah, I think I’ll do that now, actually. I still need to run by the pub and pick up my tip-out. I forgot it last time I worked, and I think I might buy Harry a little ‘coming home’ present. You guys will come over tonight, yeah? I’m sure Harry will want to see you.”

“Of course, Lou,” Zayn smiles at him. “See you, mate.”

Louis smiles and picks up his coffee, spares them both a small wave as he walks away.

“Zayn,” Liam says lowly, dangerously, “What the hell are you doing?”

Zayn looks at his fiancé for just a moment before looking back to Louis’ retreating form, “What should have been done a long fucking time ago.”

\---

Louis opens the door and is instantly hit with a wall of freezing cold air. He steps through, pulling his key from the latch, and closes the door gently behind him. He hasn’t been in the flat since his and Harry’s fight. It feels a lot bigger now that he’s there alone, like it could swallow him whole if it wanted to. He also feels a lot more at home than he’d like to admit.

He walks slowly through the flat, taking in every cup left on the kitchen counter, the blanket on the couch, one of Louis’ own shoes left in the middle of the living room. He runs his fingers over the wall as he walks through the hallway, lets them drag across the bumpy-textured feel of them like he’s feeling out all the time spent there.

He reaches the spare room door and looks at it with his head slightly cocked to the side. He sighs, the same room he and Harry had their fight in, where Louis admitted he loved the other boy, where he felt more vulnerable and exposed than he has in years. He should’ve known the fucking coats would be in there.

He pulls his shoulders back and holds his head high when he opens the door, and it’s just as beautiful as the first and last time he was there. The curtains still flow from that one cracked window, the bookshelf untouched, the chair that holds a million tales, the piano with dusted rows of ivory. It’s so enchanting, a whole world separated from everywhere else.

He steps through and scans the room for the closet. He finds it tucked away in the far left corner, a small door with cracked white paint. He grazes his fingers over the piano as he passes it, rubs the dust from his fingertips, and opens the closet door.

The closet is fairly big but cluttered with so many things, he’s afraid to touch anything for fear of it falling over. He scans over everything quickly until he sees a navy blue coat in the right corner. It’s when he pulls it off the hanger that something crashes to the ground with a resounding _crack._

“Shit,” Louis mumbles, tucking the coat under his arm and reaching for what looks to be picture frame, black rimmed and face-down. He picks it up and flips it over to dust off some of the broken shards when his eyes glance over the picture. His breath hitches, stops completely, and suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

Pictured is Harry, looking much younger, his face thinner, his eyes sparkling in a way Louis’ never seen; his curls are unruly and longer, showing off all his teeth in a cheesy grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the sides, his dimples folding in on themselves. What makes his heart stop, start, and race wildly, though, isn’t the fact that Liam, Niall, and Zayn can be seen in the background, laughing and clapping and leaning on each other. It’s himself. It’s Louis perched high on Harry’s back, the younger boy’s arms tucked beneath his knees. He’s got his arm wrapped around Harry’s chest below his neck, his other held up in a tight, victorious fist above his head. His mouth is open as if he’s shouting something that’s causing the rest of them to laugh so much. He’s got his glasses perched at the end of his nose and a spark in his eyes he’s only ever heard about. His hands shake as he drops the frame to the ground again.

He surges into the closet, his heart racing, something he can’t quite name swirling in the pit of his stomach. He pushes clothes to the side and finds even more picture frames and what looks like a scrap book on a shelf behind them. He picks up the first one and it’s himself, his mother, and his younger sister Lottie in formal attire, all big smiles and warm eyes. He drops that one to the ground and picks up another. It’s another one of himself and Harry, just them curled up on his mother’s sofa. Harry’s sprawled out on his back with Louis on his stomach between his legs. Louis’ got his head tucked into the crook of Harry’s neck, a blanket thrown loosely over them.

It continues like that, Louis dropping picture frame after picture frame, his eyes clouding after each discovery. He finds one of Harry and his mother, Harry and his sisters, himself and who he recognises as Harry’s sister from a picture on his phone, and many more of himself and the younger boy. When he drops the last one, he stands still for a moment, his mind racing in time with the rise and fall of his chest.  

Until suddenly his skin is too tight and paper-thin, everything is too hot, his head is too heavy, every inch of his skin begging him to _move._ He runs over the picture frames, glass and wood crunching beneath his trainers, around the piano, all the way out of Harry’s flat and slams the door shut, not stopping to lock it. He takes the stairs, his feet pounding against the cement with quaking force, feels like he’s absolutely suffocating, drowning in his own lungs until he reaches his car. He climbs in and sits there for a moment. Just long enough to catch his breath, and it’s like going sixty to zero and back in less than a second, because the moment his breath evens out, he’s yelling, screaming at the top of his lungs. He screams until his throat goes raw, beating the heel of his palm against the steering wheel.

He’s so confused, so fucking confused and angry, and he doesn’t even know how he should feel because he _doesn’t understand._ He throws himself back into his seat and stares out the windshield. ‘ _How?’_ plays like  a broken record over and over in his head. He knows, he gets that there are a lot of things he doesn’t remember, a lot he was never told, but the boys – they wouldn’t keep something like this from him, would they? And Harry – God. His head is pounding, little white spots floating around his field of vision until he closes his eyes against it. He doesn’t, but apparently once did, know Harry. He’s so _frustrated_ because it’s all laid out in front of him, but he still feels utterly lost, like he just can’t connect the dots.

The only thing he can think to do is throw his car into reverse, pulling out onto the main road and heading north. He needs to see his mum. He needs to understand.

\---

He pulls up to his childhood home and he’s hit with a tidal wave of emotion. He’d driven over on auto-pilot, making the three hour trip feel more like three minutes. It’s two in the afternoon, the girls will be at school, his mum’s car is in the drive, and he’s terrified. He’s digging his fingernails into the leather-wrapped steering wheel until the pressure hurts because he’s absolutely shaking. He feels like he’s digging into something he’s not meant to know. And that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Because he did know this. At one point, it was his life, not just a closet full of face-down picture frames.

He takes a deep breath to steady his hands and opens his car door and climbs out. The house seems much bigger, more daunting, like it towers over his head with walls built of secrets. He keeps his footsteps steady. He’s got questions, and he deserves the answers. He’s going to demand them. As soon as that door is answered, he’s going to say, _‘Enough is enough. It’s been two years too long. I want the truth.’_  

He marches up to the door and knocks with a steady hand, three firm raps at the door.

“Coming!” He hears his mother’s voice call. The door opens shortly after, and Jay stops short at the sight of him. “Oh, Louis-”

“I’m gay,” he blurts out, and, okay, that wasn’t what he meant to lead off with, but he had to say it sooner or later.

Jay sighs, walking away from the door but leaving it open for Louis to walk through, “Zayn said you’d be over,” she calls over her shoulder.

Louis frozen in place, not really sure of what just happened. He slowly moves across the threshold and closes the door behind him. He can hear his mum opening cabinets in the kitchen, most likely has the kettle on. He finds he’s right when he walks into the kitchen to see her pouring two mugs. He sits at the table. “I never told Zayn I was coming over,” he says.

She doesn’t look up as he speaks, pouring a splash of milk into Louis’ tea. “How is he then?”

He’s confused by her ignoring his comment about Zayn and even more confused by her question. “He’s alright,” he says slowly, “He and Liam are engaged.”

Jay does look up at that, bringing the two mugs over and sitting across from him at the table. “I meant Harry.”

Louis feels his throat closing in on itself. He feels like this has to be one huge, sick joke. He wants to say it’s not funny. “In the hospital,” he chokes out.

“I know,” she says softly.

“Zayn?” he questions, figuring he told her.

“Anne.”

“Anne?”

“His mum.”

“God,” he sighs, bringing his elbows to the table, resting his face in his hands. “What’s going on?”

“Zayn sent you to that closet on purpose, y’know.”

“I figured that out at some point on the way here,” he mumbles through his fingers before finally lifting his head.  “Who is he?”

“Harry?” she questions, taking a sip of her tea. He nods, a frown ghosting his face. “Who is he to you, Louis?”

“He’s – my boyfriend?”

Jay raises an eyebrow, “Is that a question?”

“Fuck, mum, can we just – can you just tell me what I want to know? You know about the picture, you know about Harry, you’re all in on some big secret I’ve been dancing around and I don’t,  I-” He loses the battle with the growing lump in his throat, white hot tears slipping down his cheeks as he chokes out a strangled sound. “I just want to know.”

Jay’s face falls, reaching her hands out to take one of Louis’ in both of hers, “Baby,” she starts, “There’s a lot that you don’t know about Harry.” It’s the same thing Liam told him after Harry had stormed out of the flat to drink himself into what was almost an early grave. He doesn’t say that, though.

“Like what?” he prompts weakly. He doesn’t have the energy to pussyfoot around the truth. He wants to know.

“You met him when he was fifteen.”

Louis chokes on air, has to cough violently, hitting his chest with the hand his mum was holding moments before. “What?” His eyes are wide, wet, and a little wild.

“You both said it was love at first sight,” she continues, and there’s suddenly a sharp ringing in his ears. “Y’know, you didn’t tell me or Mark that you were together until nearly a year after you’d started dating?”

Louis’ breathing too shallowly, too quickly, too much, it’s too fucking much. ‘Love,’ ‘dating,’ and ‘year’ ring out in his mind like a taunt. He barely registers the fact that it all means he’s come out to his mother twice. “I don’t – I,” his throat is so tight, his entire chest feels constricted.

“Louis, what do you want to know?” And there’s what he wanted, what he’s been wanting for the past two years. He’s wanted someone with answers to ask him what it is he wants to know about his own life.

“Everything,” he says brokenly, “Everything,” he repeats.

Jay sighs, leaning back in her chair, “You and Harry were together for two years. Your accident happened the day of your second anniversary.” Louis’ changed his mind, he doesn’t want to know, it’s too much far too quickly, but he can’t find the words to make it stop. “You were on your way back from Manchester, where you’d met up with myself and Harry’s mum.”

“You,” he stutters, “Y-you said I,” he coughs, “I was on my way to see the boys.”

“That is what I said,” she smiles sadly. “You lived with Harry. The flat he lives in? It was your Granddad’s. When he passed, he left it to the both of you. When you moved back to here after the accident, I insisted he keep it.”

“No, Grandad lived-”

“In assisted living. He was an old man, Louis. He needed to be cared for. When he was younger, though, he owned that flat, and he never got rid of it because it was paid for and in a wonderful area. He always told me that he planned to give it to you. In his last few months, he told me he was glad you and Harry could have a place to start your lives together.”

Suddenly, so much makes sense. All the things he thought were coincidence, good guesses-it all makes so much sense. He never knew, had no reason to suspect, and it was all there in front of his face. His mind is reeling from all the things that click into place, all the puzzle pieces that slide together.

“If he was fifteen-”

“You were seventeen, nearly eighteen. Which means you can’t remember even meeting him.”

Louis hands cover his mouth, “Oh my God.”

“I’ve never seen someone so heartbroken, Louis. He was absolutely destroyed after you woke up.”

“He was there?” Louis questions, tilting his head forward, hanging on every word.

“Every day. Every second that he could be in your room, holding your hand, he was there. He _loves_ you with everything he has,” she says, putting emphasis on the present tense of ‘love.’ “No one knew how to console him, because he was the only one you didn’t remember.”

Louis feels like he’s sinking, he’s drowning at sea with nothing but a dangling truth above his head. He feels like cold hands are wrapped around his ankles, dragging him down to the darkest depths of calm water, places where sunlight doesn’t touch. “Was he there when I…” _woke up_ , is what Jay knows he was going to ask.

“Yes. ‘ Was the first one at your side,” her voice is soft, her smile is soft, and it does _nothing_ to soften the blow of every word like a punch to his gut.

“I don’t, I, shouldn’t-”

“You were so high, Louis,” she chuckles sadly. “You had so much medicine in you, you don’t honestly remember the first couple of days after you woke up. After they tested everything, figured out what was going on, they told us we shouldn’t influence your memory. So, Harry stayed away, for both of your sakes.

“He should’ve-”

“Don’t, Louis,” her voice goes hard for the first time. “You didn’t see him after. He was devastated. The first sentence you spoke was ‘Who are you?’ and you said it right to his face. He told me he died that day and every day since. It’s why he drinks.”

Louis inhales quickly, and suddenly everything Harry’s ever said about his drinking or his ‘ex’ makes sense. Then things Liam and Zayn said are piercing through his skull and rendering him boneless. “The-” he starts too quickly, choking on spit, “His – the, the ring,” he gestures his hand wildly.

“The one he wears around his neck,” his mum nods.

“Please tell me it’s not what I think,” he begs.

Jay sighs, reaching behind her into a large wooden cabinet. “I figured you’d ask that.” She pulls out a small, blue, velvet box that has Louis’ breath hitching. She slides it over to him. “I’m sorry, baby.”

He picks the box up with shaking hands, runs his thumb along the crease that splits it in half before biting his lip and flipping it open. He immediately puts it back on the table, though, reading and re-reading the words imprinted in the top of the box. The ‘Marry Me?’ that’s spelled out like a sneer, searing into his eyes.

“I? I- I mean, I propo-” Louis throws his hand over his mouth, feels like he’s going to be sick.

“No,” his mum says sadly, and his eyes pop to hers quickly, “You were going to – at dinner that night. You had picked it up from an engraving shop in Manchester, met up with me and Anne for breakfast, and were driving back when you were in the accident. I called Harry and told him when he was waiting for you at the restaurant you were supposed to be meeting him at. The doctor – I left, later that night. He stayed and the doctor gave him the items that were on your person at the time of the accident. He found the box, and he hasn’t taken it off since.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I-I,” and then he’s throwing his chair back, tipping it over as he runs to the sink, throwing up all his breakfast. His mum comes up behind him, rubbing his back and saying soft words that don’t quite meet his ears. He spits one last time, turning the faucet and sipping slowly.

“I’m sorry,” his mum says again.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says honestly.

“Yes, you do.”  Yeah, he does.

\---

He makes it back to London just after seven. He knows Harry is home by now. Harry, his boyfriend, his once almost-fiancé, Harry. His steps are slow and deliberate and he takes the stairs. Despite his efforts to prolong the inevitable, he arrives at a familiar door far too quickly. He’s half tempted to just turn and run away, but that would be too easy. He’s been doing that for a lot longer than he’d realised. He wanted the truth, he got the truth, and now he’s at the truth’s doorstep, clad in nothing the shattered pieces of his illusions.

He knocks three times, firm, sure. He hears Harry’s footsteps behind the door, can tell he’s wearing socks, feels the timing of his footfalls keep rhythm with the thrumming in his ears. The door opens, and there he is: pale, hair askew, in sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt, his eyes red and his cheeks tear-stained. He’s absolutely breathtaking.

They’re both silent for a second too long and then Louis is reaching a hand up to push on Harry’s chest, softly guiding him backward. Louis kicks the door closed behind him. “Harry,” he breathes.

Harry sniffs quickly, “Your mum called,” his voice is low and gravely, “Said you’d be headed back.”

It’s like seeing him in a whole new light. He knows all these things, but doesn’t remember the moments that align with them. He doesn’t have the depth behind them that Harry does, the pockets of warmth that live in his eyes.

“I don’t remember you, Harry Styles,” he says so quietly, everything is so quiet, and brings a hand up to rub his thumb across Harry’s cheekbone. “But I wish I did.”

Harry sobs, his shoulders jumping as more tears slip out the side of his eye. He doesn’t move, though. He lets Louis catch his tears with his thumbs, looks into his eyes. “I love you,” Harry says, and Louis thinks it means a lot more than when he had said it himself. “I love you so fucking much. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you when you’ve been in the same room as me. I’ve missed you when you’ve been all I can see and smell and breathe. I’ve missed you every day.”

“I’ve always been here, Harry,” he says surely.

“Not completely. I always had to make sure I never knew too much,” he admits. “You were never supposed to find out this way, Louis. I’m sorry,” he sounds so genuine and so broken and so genuinely broken that it breaks Louis’ heart.

“I was never supposed to find out at all, Haz,” he says it without an ounce of bitterness, because now, hindsight is twenty-twenty, and he gets why they didn’t tell him right away, didn’t just present Harry after his accident with a ‘welcome back! Here’s your boyfriend you don’t even remember exists.’ He gets that they were trying to protect him, but he _wants_ this. He wants Harry. He wants all of him. His need, his drive, his craving to be so intertwined with the boy has only grown stronger, and it should scare him, everything, all of it, the grandness of it, how big it all is, but it doesn’t.

“I knew you would, eventually. I just – I don’t know. I really don’t,” he laughs without humor, like something careful hangs between them.

“I love you,” Louis says, and Harry’s head snaps up.

“Louis, you don’t have to-”

“No, Harry. Listen to me. I love you. I don’t remember the things you do. I can’t. I’ve accepted the fact that those years of my life don’t belong to me anymore. But this time I’ve spent with you, this new time has been so incredible, you are so incredible, and I meant it when I said I loved you. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t, and after all I’ve been told, I would hope you know that about me. I’m not saying it out of pity, because I know how much we’ve been through. I love you, Harry. I love you.”

Harry stares at him, unblinking, for a moment until he nods to himself and brings his hands up to the back of his neck, ducking his head down. He unclasps the chain around his neck and feels it slack between his fingers. Louis watches creased brow and questioning eyes as Harry runs his thumb over the ring suspended in the middle of the chain with soft eyes.

 “Harry-” he starts, but is quickly cut off.

“I’ve loved you every day.”

“Harry-” Louis tries again, his eyes still wet, or maybe again.

“I don’t need you to remember, Louis,” he whispers, hot breath clouding around Louis’ face. “I just need you here with me, always,” his voice is firm, but his face is crumped desperately, begging Louis to not push him away.

Louis brings one hand to the side of Harry’s neck, his thumb scraping across his hairline, “Always,” he whispers back.

Harry’s eyes raise to Louis’ and he smiles timidly before stepping closer to the smaller boy. He separates the two ends of the necklace and brings them around Louis’ neck, clasping it in the back smoothly. It falls against Louis chest, body-warm and heavy. His heart is racing, he feels it thrum in his veins.

“What’s this then?” he asks softly, his left hand coming up to close his hand around the ring where it rests against his chest.

“A symbol,” Harry says even quieter.

“Of what?” Louis matches his tone.

“Serendipity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so long, friends. xxx


End file.
